Memories Of Me
by Gillian Middleton
Summary: While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Memories of Me  
**Author:** Gillian Middleton  
**Characters/Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating: **R **  
Total word count: **25 600  
**Warning:** Wincest.  
**Authors notes: **_Amnesia story - which by its very nature could be construed as containing a character unable to give informed consent to sex. Not non-con, perhaps dubious-con? (Also I totally made up the town this is set in.)  
_**Summary:** _While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?_

**Memories of Me**

Part 1 of 4

"Hey, Sam?"

"Hm?"

"Remember that scene in Mission Impossible?"

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what scene his brother was talking about. "No."

"You know," Dean prompted with a wicked grin, fingers smoothing over the museum plan's creased surface. "Where Tom Cruise is dangling over that floor with the sensors."

"Dean, this is a family owned museum in a town with a population of 25 000 people. They're not gonna have sensors in the floor."

Dean's grimace was a half-serious half-teasing expression of disappointment. "Would have been cool though."

"As if I was gonna dangle your heavy ass from the ceiling anyway."

Dean grinned and ran a hand down one lean thigh. "This is pure muscle, Sammy."

"Yeah yeah," Sam muttered, the plans absorbing his attention again. "Wait till a lifetime of scarfing down the fried fat that passes for food in your world catches up with you."

"Haven't exactly noticed you enjoying wheat germ and plankton for breakfast lately," Dean pointed out.

Sam dismissed the comment with a wave, mostly because it was true. A lifetime of diners and cold Big Macs on the backseat of the Impala had warped his stomach for good. He made a mental resolution to order a side of salad with his fried chicken for dinner, and moved the conversation on.

"Okay, looks like all we have to worry about is a bog standard alarm on the windows and doors."

All business when it was at hand, Dean focused on the building's plans, long practiced skills at memorizing fine details kicking in. "What about the case itself?"

"Simple wire in the glass, it'll cut out with the rest of the system. And the leather gloves should protect us from the Curse when we handle the pendant."

"Are we sure it's the Blood Ruby doing the killing? I mean the collection has been together a hundred years. It could be one of the other pieces."

Sam produced a fading khaki knapsack. "That's why I figure we should just take the entire collection. Smash the stones and melt the metal down. That should end the curse before it takes its share of this generation of Brackett family members."

"Sounds good," Dean agreed, straightening and double checking the roll of precision tools in his jacket pocket. "A museum heist, huh? Should look good on our resume."

"Yeah, Bonnie and Clyde look out," Sam said sarcastically, stowing the plans in his knapsack and shouldering it.

"You're Bonnie," Dean snickered.

"Right," Sam agreed complacently. "The brains and the good looks of this outfit. That fits."

"Huh," Dean scoffed, leading the way out of the motel room into the gathering twilight. "You wish, smart boy."

-666-

The museum closed at six PM sharp and the Winchesters watched the routine that had been unchanged in the last two nights of casing the place. A guard saw out the last of the visitors, swung the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the front doors against the world. Inside Sam knew he'd be arming the rather archaic old alarm system before wandering to his cushy little billet by the side doors. There he would stay until 8 PM when he did his first rounds.

"In theory," Dean pointed out as they slipped around the side of the heritage listed old building to the rear entrance. "In reality you just know the old boy is settling down with a mug of cocoa to watch Desperate Housewives."

"Let's hope he has something a little stronger than cocoa," Sam murmured back quietly as he jimmied the lock on the power box and set to work with a small pair of pliers. "I really don't feel like tackling an old man tonight." The outdated alarm system ran off the phone line, and it was a simple matter to hook up a bypass without disrupting the line and sending a warning signal to the alarm company.

Dad had taught him that one when Sam had been thirteen.

With a quick twist the bypass was in place and Sam held his breath for a moment as he cut the alarm wire. Then he slanted a triumphant grin at his brother. "Brains of the outfit," he murmured, eyebrows dancing ala Groucho Marx.

Dean slapped him on the shoulder and set to work on the back door. In moments he had it open but when he swung his own triumphant look on his brother Sam made it a point to look bored and stalk by him. "About time," he hissed in Dean's ear as he brushed by, then had to skip a step to avoid another harder slap on the back of his head.

"Glory hog," Dean whispered, but he was already shining the pencil-slim flashlight through the kitchen to the pitch black hall. They were all business again as they trod carefully and quietly down the worn carpeting of the long hallway, long-practiced footsteps testing each floorboard for noisy squeaks common in these old wooden houses. In near silence they made their way down the memorized route to the exhibit hall that had hosted the Brackett Collection since 1906.

"There it is," Sam pointed out as the thin beam caught the old glass case they'd innocently viewed the day before with a half dozen other bored looking visitors. It looked different in the flickering light, darker, more sinister, the old gold and silver estate jewelry gleaming dully as the light played over it.

One final check that they hadn't missed anything and they were at opposite ends of the case, lifting the heavy old glass in perfect unison and laying it as quietly as possible on the polished wooden floor beside its stand.

Dean flicked Sam at glance and his brother nodded back at him. Then flexing his gloved fingers Dean reached for the pendant that held the teardrop shaped Blood Ruby. That's when it happened.

There should have been a flash of light, Sam thought later. A noise, a warning, some kind of sign that something had happened. It shouldn't have been just Dean, freezing for a moment as if a shock had shivered through him, and then dropping like a stone onto the wooden floor, the pendant falling back into the case, his torch clattering away across the highly polished floor.

"Dean!" Sam whispered, dropping his own torch as he swiftly bent to try and catch his brother to halt his fall. He managed to keep Dean's head from colliding with the floor, but Dean was out like a light, completely lax and unconscious in Sam's urgent hold.

"Dean?" he hissed, shaking his brother but it was obvious Dean was not waking up any time soon. With a glance flickering around the room and the scattered flashlights shining their thin beams at crazy angles on the walls, Sam summed the situation up in a moment. He took a deep breath and hefted his brother up onto his shoulder, aborting the mission in a heartbeat. Dean hadn't even touched the ruby, just lifted it gingerly by the chain.

Clearly they had more research to do before he even attempted to destroy the damn thing.

Time seemed stretched out, but less than a minute after Dean had reached for the pendant Sam was striding down the dark hall, easily carrying his brother's dead weight over his shoulder. Without incident he was out and treading the damp grass to the car. A tricky moment when he groped for his set of keys and unlocked the Chevy, before dumping Dean as swiftly as he could into the passenger seat and sprinting around the car.

He didn't breathe easily until they were miles away and only minutes from the motel, then he was easing the car onto the verge and reaching for his brother again.

"Dean? Wake up, man! Talk to me!"

With a rush of relief he saw Dean's brow twitch and his eyelashes flutter.

"Thank god," Sam breathed. "Dean? What the hell happened?"

With a shuddering snort Dean's eyes flew open and he jerked upright, looking around the car as if spooked.

"Dean, it's okay," Sam said, reaching out for Dean's leather clad arm and squeezing it comfortingly. Dean jerked back, pulling his arm out of the loose grip and backing against the car door. His elbow hit the window with a smart bang and Sam winced sympathetically.

"What the hell?" Dean swore, nursing his elbow and staring at Sam with wild eyes. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Don't you remember? You picked up the Blood Ruby and you went down, man. Like a sack of potatoes. Guess there's no doubt it's the pendant that's cursed."

"Say what?" Dean tore his eyes away from Sam's face and rapidly tracked the inside of the car and Sam's gaze automatically followed, taking in the gleaming old interior, the hastily stowed shoebox of ragged tapes, the shimmer of rain drops gathering and sliding sluggishly down the dark windows. "Where am I anyway?"

Sam frowned. "Near the motel. I aborted the job and booked out of there, Dean. I didn't have any choice."

"Okay, okay," Dean said, lifting his hands and making a time-out gesture. "Slow down, dude, let's start at the beginning. Why are you calling me that? Who the hell are you?"

Sam gaped at him, not sure whether he'd missed the beginning of some joke and this was the punch line. A tingle of panic was zinging down his spine as Dean looked around again, frowning even harder.

"Where am I anyway?" An arrested look came over Dean's face and he looked down at himself, his brown leather jacket, his hands still encased in the worn leather gloves, his dark jeans and boots "Who am I?" he whispered.

And Sam's tingle of dread became a full fledged burst of panic.

"Dean?" he croaked, nursing one last desperate hope that this was all some stupid prank. But the look his brother turned on him banished that notion, Dean's eyes had widened until they seemed all pupil and his chest was rising and falling raggedly.

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered.

Sam reached out again and this time Dean didn't pull away, just looked blankly down at Sam's hand gripping his forearm reassuringly.

"I don't know," Sam said, wincing at the quaver in his own voice. "But don't worry, we'll figure it out."

"Don't worry?" Dean repeated. He shook the hand off violently. "Don't worry? Don't you get it, man? I don't remember. _Anything_. My mind is a total blank!"

"I get it," Sam said soothingly. "Okay, I get it. But having a panic attack isn't gonna fix it. We need to get back to the motel and get back into research mode. There's obviously a lot more to this Curse than we thought."

"Curse?" Dean repeated incredulously. "What motel? No, scratch that. I mean, forget motels, man. I need a hospital. Get me to an emergency room."

Sam was shaking his head. "No, Dean, seriously. I know you don't understand but this is not something a doctor can help you with."

"I've lost my memory," Dean said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. "My memory, genius. If you don't go and see a doctor about that, what do you do?"

"This isn't something that was caused by a medical condition," Sam said in frustration. How the hell was he going to explain this without sounding like a complete nut job?

"Oh no," Dean said sarcastically. "I forgot. It was a _curse_. How silly of me."

"I know this doesn't make sense," Sam began but Dean cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"No, you know what doesn't make sense? Me, sitting here next to the insane person who probably did this to me in the first place. Screw you, I'm getting out of here."

"Dean!" Sam shoved the car door open as Dean groped for a door handle and sprang out into the road. The rain was coming down in buckets now and within moments he could feel the drag as his outer layers of clothing were saturated. Dean was already stumbling away down the grassy verge, cursing under his breath as his boot landed in a puddle all but invisible in the darkness.

"Dean, for god's sake stop," Sam shouted, grabbing his brother's arm and dragging him to a halt. He was ready when Dean twisted from his grasp and brought a fist up to punch, he blocked it easily and side stepped the next swing, twisting until his brother lost his footing and ended up stumbling against Sam's taller form.

"Dammit," Dean cursed, gritting his jaw and staring up at the taller man in frustration. "Dammit, what the hell is going on here?"

Sam's heart wrung at the pleading tone in his brother's voice. He couldn't remember Dean ever being so vulnerable before, so frightened. Sam was almost ashamed to admit to himself that it frightened him a little to see his brother this way. Dean was the one he relied on to get through crap like this. Sam did his part but it was Dean's strength he leaned on.

The heavy rain was colder than the summer night had any right to be, it ran in uncomfortable rivulets into his collar and down his face, half blinding him. Dean's head was bent against its drive, water zigzagging down his cheeks and dripping dully onto the leather of his jacket.

With a twist of resolve Sam straightened, supporting his brother's defeated form, feeling his determination harden within him. He didn't have Dean to lean against now. Dean was the one who needed him. And Sam would not let him down.

"I know you don't have any reason to," Sam said quietly, feeling Dean's hands grip his forearms convulsively. "But you have to trust me, Dean. I promise you, we will fix this. Please. Trust me."

Dean sniffed, lifting a gloved hand and wiping at the raindrops running over his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He straightened, pulling away from Sam, deliberately letting him go and standing on his own two feet. With one last glance down the dark grassy verge and then back at the Impala, headlights still cutting through the driving rain, he finally looked over at Sam. The panic and fear were gone, replaced by a kind of blank mask.

"I don't think I have much choice. Do I?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said helplessly.

"And I'm wet," Dean threw back. He turned and trod carefully back towards the car. "You got a towel or something in the trunk?" he threw back over his shoulder. "Don't want to ruin the upholstery."

Sam gaped after him for a moment before huffing a laugh and shaking his head. "At least you remember the important things."

-666-

"Tell me this isn't where I live?" Dean said as he followed Sam into the motel room.

"No, we're just renting the room for the week." Sam dumped the knapsack onto the table, pushing aside the greasy old pizza boxes and empty beer bottles.

"Thank god," Dean sighed in relief. "To quote Oscar Wilde, man, either that wallpaper goes or I do."

Sam paused in mid step. "To quote Oscar Wilde?" he repeated incredulously, but Dean's attention had already wandered.

"Are those flying ducks?" he said in amazement, studying the porcelain treasures gracing the afore mentioned wallpaper. "Is this for real?" He turned to Sam and smirked. "Seriously, dude. Am I on Candid Camera?"

Sam shook his head as he flopped down onto the hard wooden chair by the table. "I don't get this," he said blankly. "You remember Oscar Wilde and Alan Funt, but you don't remember me? And by the way, _Oscar Wilde_?" he repeated in amazement.

"I don't know what to tell you," Dean said rubbing one finger over a flock-covered lamp and shuddering. He paused and then turned back to Sam with a curious expression. "And what do you mean, _we're_ renting it for the week." He frowned at Sam and then at the two double beds flanking a side table and dreadful lamp. "You mean you and me?"

"Yeah, we're only in town for a week."

"It's not the week part I'm asking about here," Dean said carefully. He looked again at the tumbled beds and then back at Sam. "It's the us part. You and me."

Sam followed his gaze to the bed and then looked back at Dean, noticing with horror the speculative nature of that gaze, the ambient heat stirring in his eyes.

"We're brothers!" he blurted out. "You and me," he continued lamely as Dean's eyes widened. "We're brothers."

Dean snorted disbelievingly. "Yeah, right," he scoffed. "Pull the other one, buddy. Brothers."

Oddly hurt by the quick dismissal Sam continued defensively. "Don't call me buddy," he said stiffly, thinking that even the hated 'Sammy' nickname would be welcome now. "My name is Sam. And we are brothers."

Dean surveyed him dubiously for a few uncomfortable moments and then shook his head, water droplets scattering the nearby wall. "Whatever, dude. Any chance of some dry clothes?"

Sam pointed out his duffel bag and Dean lifted it onto the nearest bed and unzipped it. "Only the best for me," he drawled sarcastically as he dragged out a wrinkled black t-shirt and jeans.

"We're about due a laundry visit," Sam muttered. "Did you hear me before? We _are_ brothers, Dean."

"Look, buddy," Dean began, then paused deliberately. "I mean _Sam_. You obviously have some serious issues and some weird-ass story to tell me. And, believe me, as a man with a big empty space where his memory should be, I'm just dying to hear it. But don't start off with the brother story, 'kay? Because I may not know my last name or what freakin' state I'm in, but I know you and I are not related." Another flickering glance at the beds. "Not by blood anyway," he smirked. "I'll try not to use all the hot water."

Then he was inside the bathroom and Sam could clearly hear the lock twist closed behind him.

"Damn arrogant jerk," Sam cursed under his breath. It figured that even without his memory Dean was a smartass. And what the hell was up with that brother crap? What made amnesiac Dean so sure he and Sam weren't related? Sam glanced over at the beds and felt his cheeks reddening at Dean's smirking insinuations. It was tiresome enough taking those kinds of innuendos from motel clerks, gas station attendants, waitresses in diners and bartenders in seedy dives, without hearing it from his only brother!

Realizing time was passing and the shower was now pelting fiercely behind the closed and locked bathroom door, Sam began to strip off his own sodden clothes, tossing them in a crumpled heap on the small square of vinyl that housed the tiny chipped bar fridge and kettle. Deciding against a shower he quickly toweled down and pulled on warm sweatpants. He was bending over his duffel bag to rummage through for a clean T when behind him the bathroom door opened and Dean emerged in a cloud of steam. He was still toweling off his short hair, even though he had pulled on the soft old jeans and t-shirt.

He stopped and stared as Sam turned to look at him and Sam straightened, wondering if something else had happened while his brother was in the bathroom.

"Are you okay?" he asked in concern, instantly forgetting his irritation.

Dean stared at him fixedly for a moment longer before blinking and focusing on his face. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. Don't you want to shower?" His voice was husky and Sam gripped the t-shirt he'd selected and stepped around the bed.

"You sure, man?"

Dean frowned. "Yeah, what do you want, a doctor's note? Actually that might not be a bad idea."

Sam shook his head at him. "I told you-"

"No doctors, I know." Dean rubbed the towel over his head one last time before tossing it on the heap of Sam's clothes. "Uh, aren't you getting cold, man?"

Sam tilted his head blankly and then looked down at his own bare chest. "Oh, yeah, right." He pulled the t-shirt over his head and brushed his hair out of his eyes, watching his brother surreptitiously. Dean had taken a seat on the end of the bed and was pointedly staring at the floor between his bare feet. Sam gingerly sat down on the other bed, spreading his thighs and linking his hands loosely between his knees. He really wanted to reach out and comfort his brother right now, Dean looked so lost sitting there, so alone. But being brother and son to men who would rather get ripped apart by wild dogs than admit emotions had taught Sam some simple lessons.

Besides, Dean didn't need a hug right now. He needed his brother to be strong for him.

"I don't know where to start," Sam said, the enormity of trying to explain this to Dean almost overwhelming him.

"The beginning?" Dean suggested, still staring down as if his own feet fascinated him.

"The beginning," Sam repeated. "Right. Might be better if I tell you what's obviously on your mind. Your name is Winchester. Dean Winchester. No middle name."

"Winchester," Dean repeated. He looked up at Sam. "And you're Sam."

"Sam Winchester," Sam said firmly, although without heat. This was not the time to let Dean annoy him, practiced though his brother was at it. He had to keep in mind that this was the way Dean dealt with things, even the hardest things. A wisecrack, a joke, a smirk to cover whatever the hell he was really feeling.

"Whatever." Dean shrugged.

"And we're in California. A little beachside town called San Marco. Population 25 000," he said sadly, remembering how he'd pointed that fact out to his brother just a few hours earlier.

"Okay, so now I know who and where. How about the why? Why are we here?"

"We're here because our father sent us a text message asking us to come here."

Dean blinked in surprise. "Our father?"

"Yeah. John Winchester."

"Wow," Dean said, making an impressed face. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me to ask about family before. It seems kind of obvious when you think about it."

"Could be because we don't have any other family," Sam said gently. "It's just you, me and Dad."

Dean pondered this. "No mom?"

Sam shook his head. "She, uh, she died when I was six months old."

"Bummer," Dean said sympathetically. "So, where's this Dad then?" He looked around the room as if Sam was going to pull John Winchester from his duffel bag at any moment.

"Um, I don't actually know at the moment," Sam confessed. "He's kind of traveling alone right now. It's a long story."

Dean surveyed him skeptically, crossing his arms and leaning back a little. "I see," he said quietly. "How convenient. No Dad around to back up your story. Convenient for you, anyway."

The irritation was back, and with it a fair smattering of impatience. "Look, Dean, I understand that you might be having a hard time trusting right now," Sam said tightly. "I really do. I can't imagine how scary it must be to wake up and not remember anything. But I don't know what to tell you, man. You either trust me right now or walk out that door. I'm not keeping you here."

Dean glanced over at the door and then back at him. "Nice," he said bitterly. "Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"Exactly," Sam said hard-heartedly. "This is a crap situation but we are in it together, all right? You have no choice but to trust me right now and all I can do is promise not to lie to you. Okay?"

Dean stood up and paced to the door and for a heart-stopping minute Sam thought he was going to wrench it open and walk out into the wild night. But Dean merely paced to the door then swung around and paced back.

"I hate this!" he exclaimed in frustration. "I hate not being in control of this!"

"I know," Sam sympathized, releasing a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "For what it's worth, Dean, your memory might be temporarily misplaced but your personality sure hasn't. And I know you well enough to understand how frustrating this must be for you." Sam stood up, leaning forward to convey his sincerity. "Please, Dean. Let me explain this to you. So we can start to figure out how the hell we can fix it."

Their faces were only inches away from each other and Dean was frowning fiercely up at him, glaring into his eyes as if he could reach in and rip the truth out of him. Finally the fierce expression faded and Dean shook his head and huffed out a sigh. "Well I'm up for that," he agreed, edging around Sam and resuming his seat on the bed. "So, your Dad sent you a text."

"_Our _Dad sent us a text," Sam corrected, making himself comfortable on the edge of the bed.

"Right."

"He told us that the Brackett family Curse was starting back up again."

"There's that word again," Dean muttered. "Curse."

Sam plowed on. "Every 25 years or so the women in the Brackett family start dying. Usually after they've produced heirs for the continuation of the family line. We figured Dad must have stumbled over it while researching... something else. He probably made a note of when it would roll around again, and that's why he sent us here now."

Dean studied his face closely. "Researching what?" he asked shrewdly.

Sam suppressed an inner groan. Trust Dean to put his finger right on it. The man might not be book smart, but his intelligence was every bit as fierce as his college educated brother. Especially when focused on a hunt. And Dean Winchester had been hunting a very long time.

"Researching our mother's death," he admitted reluctantly.

Dean's brow rose in surprise but he didn't rush into the kinds of questions Sam would have in his place. "And is that what our father does? Try to find out about our mother's death?"

Sam nodded. "That's how it started. It was a demon, apparently. That killed her." Might as well be in for a penny as a pound, Sam thought.

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense."

"It does?" Sam asked, taken aback.

"Yeah, well, he sends us here to investigate a curse, for god's sake. I assume he didn't do that out of the blue. So is this what we do? Break curses, look for demons?"

"Well that's part of it," Sam said dazedly. "I can't believe how well you're taking this."

"I don't see why," Dean said reasonably. "I mean, you said it before. I remember Candid Camera, and how to work a shower and how to talk, for god's sake."

"And Oscar Wilde," Sam pointed out. "Still reeling from that one."

"I saw it in a movie," Dean dismissed. "My point is that I remember stuff. Just not stuff about me. Nothing whatsoever about me."

Sam considered this. "I guess so."

"So it stands to reason this stuff shouldn't be too hard to swallow. I mean, yeah, a curse sounds crazy. But not impossible. And not really that surprising, when I think about it. I mean how often do you wake up with your memory wiped?"

"Then you know this stuff?" Sam said hopefully. "You know that it's real?"

Dean grimaced. "I guess I do."

"Well that makes my life a lot easier."

"And mine a lot harder," Dean muttered. "I mean, amnesia, fine, interesting, glamorous even. Make a great story next time I want to impress some looker in a bar. But a curse? How the hell am I supposed to brag about that?"

And he sounded so much like the old Dean that Sam had to grin. "Tell you what, we fix this thing and we'll just pretend you got it bumping your head, okay? In some cool and glamorous way."

"You better back me up," Dean smirked. "So okay, back to the Twilight Zone. Dad sends us a text about a curse. How does that end with me minus my memory?"

Sam settled back to explain how they'd stumbled on the legend of the cursed Blood Ruby pendant straight away. How the Bracketts had founded this town 200 years ago and how the pendant had been housed in the family museum for most of the last century.

And how it was time the damn thing was destroyed.

"And all I did was touch it?"

"All you did was touch the chain," Sam clarified worriedly. "Wearing gloves that had been treated with holy water. Damn thing shouldn't have been able to touch you."

"Any evidence that it's cursed anybody other than Brackett family women?"

"No, but that doesn't mean anything. Most of the dead Bracketts died of natural causes. Just that so many of them dying in such a short space of time started up the legend. It's possible other people died or suffered and that it was never reported."

"But I'm not dead," Dean pointed out. "Where the hell does the memory thing come in?"

"I've been thinking about that." Sam leaned over and pulled his laptop out of his leather rucksack, flicking the top and opening up the most recent document. "Here's the stuff I dug up on the family jewels."

"Family jewels," Dean snickered, standing up and looking over his shoulder.

"Dude, you did all the family jewel jokes within ten minutes of us hitting this burg," Sam informed him with a grin.

"Yeah, but it's family jewels," Dean chuckled. "A timeless classic that bears repeating."

"Whatever." Sam scrolled down the page. "Look, read this."

"_Alma Brackett_," Dean read, glancing at the accompanying photo of a formidable old woman. "Ooh, she's pretty. _Alma Brackett, who died on May 13th at the age of 93, has bequeathed the Brackett Family Collection to the Founding Father's Museum. Mrs. Brackett's granddaughter, Sarah Lester-Brackett, is planning on challenging the will. Mrs. Lester-Brackett was quoted as saying today that her grandmother was not in her right mind because by the end of her life she was suffering with the effects of old age. Her memory was almost completely gone_..."

Dean trailed off and sat back on the bed. "Her memory was gone."

Sam rubbed his chin. "I don't know if it means anything."

"And this was 1906?"

"Yeah."

"So the every 25 years timetable started with her death. And her female heir who challenged the old lady's will?"

"Was the first to die, 25 years later. Although it was decades before family archivists made note of that when speculating about this Curse."

"So it sounds like it started with the old lady. And ended with the jewels."

"That's what we figured," Sam agreed. "But this memory thing is right out of left field."

"You're telling me. So what's the solution?"

"Maybe the same as before?" Sam said thoughtfully. "We still have to destroy the Blood Ruby."

"But what if this damn Curse is fighting back?" Dean speculated. "It knows that we're here to put it down, and that's why it's done this to me."

"It's jewelry, Dean," Sam pointed out. "Cursed objects don't usually think."

"Yeah, but unless this is something else I've forgotten, we don't know exactly how cursed objects work, do we? How all that evil and malevolence gets sucked into one thing that then becomes the focus for pain and suffering for years to come?" Dean nodded at the picture on the laptop screen, the proud and haughty old lady glaring out at them, lace frill at her neck, the Blood Ruby pendant encircling her throat. "That old gal lost her memory. And now I have too. That's not a co-incidence."

"No, it's not." Sam closed the laptop with a decisive click. "Okay then, we destroy the pendant. But we do it on-site, we don't risk even touching the damn thing, let alone transporting it. Dammit, if I'd had a sledge hammer with me last night I could have done it as soon as the thing put you down."

"So, when do we do it? Now?"

Sam glanced at his watch. "No, the guard will have realized he had an intruder tonight by now. Best we can do is go back tomorrow to scope the place out and hope they don't beef the security up too much in the meantime."

"And you really think we can end this?"

Sam blew out a worried breath, shrugging. "I hope so."

"Phew." Dean leaned back on his hands and let his gaze drift around the motel room. "You sure know how to show a fella a good time."

Sam quirked a brow at him. "Well, for what it's worth, I couldn't have picked anybody who would have taken this thing better."

"Yeah, I'm an all round good sport," Dean muttered. He flicked Sam a glance and rubbed the nape of his neck ruefully. "Listen, sorry about that whole brother thing back there. You know, calling you a liar and everything. I guess it's not something you'd bother lying about."

Sam frowned. "What was that about anyway? Just why was it so hard to believe we could be brothers?"

"Well, uh, we don't look much alike," Dean pointed out.

"Lot's of brothers don't look alike."

"Hm, good point. Listen, have we eaten yet? Cos I'm kind of starved."

"We ate early." Sam frowned, studying Dean's discomfiture curiously. "Dude, is there a problem?"

"I'm hungry, that's all. Let's go get something to eat. Okay?"

"It's still raining," Sam said reluctantly. He didn't feel like getting dressed and going out. "We could order in, there's a ribs place down the road."

Dean shrugged and scooted back on the bed. "Yeah, okay," he said.

"There's a menu in the dresser drawer, pass it over, will you?" Sam reached over and Dean grabbed the stiff cardboard menu and handed it over, sinking back on the bed and avoiding Sam's eyes. Worriedly Sam sank down opposite and tried to catch his eye.

"Dean, I know this has been a lot for you to handle."

Dean held up a hand in a familiar gesture. "Don't," he said quietly. "I just need to process all this, okay?"

Another thing Sam had learnt was when to back off.

-666-

The ribs were good and hot and there was still a six pack in the bar fridge from the night before. Over the spicy BBQ sauce and cold brew Dean relaxed a little, the tense set leaving his shoulders.

"So, the rooms might be crappy but the beer's cold and we eat like kings, right?" Dean said, licking sticky lips appreciatively and leaning back in his chair with his second beer in his hand.

"Only you would think getting sticky from ear to ear is how kings eat," Sam grinned.

"Look who's talking," Dean chuckled. "Dude, you have BBQ sauce on your eyebrow. How the hell does someone do that?"

"I do?" Sam tried to peer at his own eyebrow, a move that had Dean cracking up. Sam picked up one of the wet naps and scrubbed his brow.

"You missed," Dean pointed out.

Sam tried again.

"You missed again." Dean grabbed the moist cloth and leaned forward. "Here." He brushed Sam's brow and removed the offending sauce with a flick. Sam blinked his eyes back open and grinned over at him, enjoying the moment. It almost felt as if the old Dean was back.

And then the smile on Dean's face faded and his eyes dropped from Sam's gaze to Sam's lips and in just those few horrifying moments Sam saw something he'd seen more times than he could remember, but always from the sidelines, as an observer, usually an amused or mocking one.

It was desire, and it wasn't directed at some babe in a bar or some unfortunate waitress with a spectacular cleavage.

It was directed at him, Sam. And there was no mistaking it.

Without realizing what he was going to do Sam was on his feet, chair pushed away from the table with a clatter, hand up as if shielding himself from a blow. He only realized how ridiculous he must look as the desire faded from Dean's eyes and his lips twisted in self-derision.

"Well," Dean said carefully, crumpling up the wet nap and dropping it on his plate. "I guess that answers your question of why I didn't believe you were my brother."

Sam dropped his hand, wishing he could figure out some casual way to sit back down. Some casual thing to say.

"Damn," he whispered instead.

"Yeah." Dean didn't meet his eyes.

"I mean..." Sam blinked, shrugged, searched for words. "Damn, Dean."

Now Dean shrugged, getting to his feet and moving back to his bed. "What do you want me to say?" he said evenly. "Sorry? Is that appropriate?"

Carefully Sam back down at the table, twisting in the the chair to face his brother on the bed. He was more shaken up than he would have believed, more dismayed than the situation probably called for. After all, Dean didn't even remember him. To him they were strangers who'd met only hours before. Strangers sharing a secret no one else could possibly understand or believe. It must all seem pretty intimate to a man with no other memory in the world but of him.

"You don't have to apologize," Sam said, cursing the shake in his voice. "I'm the one that should be doing that. I guess I over reacted."

"No, over reaction would have been hauling off and punching me," Dean said reasonably. "I think horrified girly shock is kinda mild in comparison."

Despite himself Sam had to chuckle. "Was that girly shock?" he appealed, appreciating his brother's attempt at lightening the mood.

_...his brother, whose eyes had dropped to his lips and darkened, smoldered. Who had licked his own lips, his breath shortening, his skin flushing..._

The attempt at lightening the mood died stillborn as Sam gripped his hands together to stop them shaking. How the hell could this have happened?

"You're not gay," Sam said abruptly. "I mean, I've known you my whole life. I've seen you flirt with hundreds of women. You are not gay."

Dean looked intrigued. "Hundreds?" he said curiously. "How do I do?"

Sam snorted. "Better than you deserve."

Dean looked flattered. "But no guys, huh?"

"No," Sam said firmly.

"Well, like I said, I don't know what to tell you. Maybe I've been discreet, maybe I've been in denial. But when I walked in on you changing a while back, dude, I had no doubts whatsoever. I... You..." He flicked Sam a quick glance and then looked away. "Well let's just say, I wasn't feeling brotherly and leave it at that."

Sam remembered standing shirtless with just his sweat pants riding low on his hips when Dean had emerged from the shower and actually had to resist the urge to cross his hands over his chest.

"Dude, you're looking at me like I'm about to ravish you," Dean said derisively. "Calm down."

"Calm down?" Sam repeated disbelievingly. "My own brother just looked at me like he wanted to eat me up! You try taking that calmly!"

"Actually I think I've been pretty calm about the whole thing!" Dean threw back angrily. "This isn't exactly a cake walk for me you know. I mean, I wake up, no memory, you tell me to trust you and then you take your shirt off."

"Dude," Sam said wretchedly "You have got to get past that."

"And then you tell me you're my brother. You try to deal with that!"

"Actually I believe I told you we were brothers before I took my shirt off."

"Whatever, man! It's not like I believed you!"

"Well, maybe you should have tried a little harder to believe me!" Sam shot back hotly. "Then you wouldn't have been leering at me when I was quite innocently walking around without my shirt."

"Innocent?" Dean snorted. "There is nothing innocent about that body, Sam."

"Stop talking about my body! Jesus Christ, Dean! This is so like you! Can't you just once see past the sex to what might be underneath?"

Dean's eyes widened in surprise, his mouth half open, doubtless ready to shout something back. Instead he gaped for a moment and then closed it with an audible click.

Sam ducked his head, feeling the flush of anger and embarrassment burning on his cheeks.

Dean was rubbing at the back of his neck. "Do I do that?" he asked ruefully. "What am I, sex mad or something?"

Sam thought about lying but then remembered he'd promised not to. Besides he was still on edge about this whole conversation and not in the mood to spare his brother's feelings. "Do the words 'dog on heat' mean anything to you?" he said bluntly.

"Ouch," Dean said, but he was half smiling, his eyes apologetic as he shot Sam a quick glance.

"It can be embarrassing," Sam admitted, somewhat mollified by Dean's air of contrition.

"I bet," Dean acknowledged. "So, um, what do you think is underneath? That I'm not seeing?"

"Well, how about love, man?" Sam asked in honest exasperation. "And before you make any cracks I'm talking about the fact that you're my brother and you love me. You might not remember it right now, but maybe some part of you does."

"Uh, at the risk of getting yelled at and called a dog again," Dean said tentatively. "The part of me we're talking about is _so_ not the part you mean."

Sam covered his face with one hand. "How did I know we were gonna end up talking about your prick? I meant your heart, you jerk. But you being you, that comes across as sleaze."

"So now I'm a dog and sleazy?" Dean said indignantly.

"Kinda makes you proud, doesn't it?" Sam threw back sarcastically.

Dean frowned and opened his mouth, then the frown melted away and he was grinning sheepishly. "Yeah, it kinda does," he agreed.

"That's cos you're... kinda slutty," Sam teased and Dean nodded thoughtfully.

"I sensed that about myself."

Sam shook his head. "And now I find out you're not just a slut, you're a bisexual slut." He couldn't help the grin that flashed in and out then.

"What?"

"I'm just picturing, you know, your face. When we get your memory back and you remember this conversation. It is gonna be so sweet."

"Jerk," Dean mumbled. He rubbed the back of his neck again, his face growing serious. "You really that sure? That I'm gonna get my memory back?"

"Course I am," Sam said confidently. "It's what we do."

Dean was frowning, shaking his head and squinting and Sam leaned over in sudden concern.

"You okay, man?"

"I can smell something," Dean said thickly, and then his body went rigid, as if he was undergoing electro-shock treatment and Sam could only stare in stunned horror as Dean dropped like a stone between the two beds and arched in silent agony.

"God, Dean!" Sam shoved the bed back and dropped to his knees beside his brother, shock immobilizing him as his hands hovered over Dean's spasming limbs. Old First Aid training came back to him, the dog eared Red Cross manual he'd memorized with his brother during long hours poking and shoving each other in the back seat on one of their endless drives in the Impala. Their Dad in the front seat, listening to them learn their answers by rote and then questioning them, asking for their opinions, making them think. It had always seemed ironic to Sam that his Dad had resented his love of education when he himself had helped sharpen Sam's mind like another weapon in his arsenal.

_Move objects out of the way. Don't try to impede the movement of the limbs during the seizure. Don't try to insert objects into the mouth. Patients will not swallow their own tongue._

He carefully turned Dean on his side, another instruction dragged from the memory bank of this mind. The rest of the advice seemed to consist of 'leave them alone to get on with it', but that had to be the hardest advice of all to follow, because that was his brother on the worn brick colored carpet. His brother's jaw grinding, his brother's hands and arms and legs twitching as at last the seizures stopped, leaving Dean limp and wrung out in their wake.

"Dean," Sam said thickly, only just becoming aware of the tears in his mouth and running down his face. Finally he could touch and he cupped Dean's face in one hand, feeling the clammy sweat of his skin, the lingering tremors as his body shook with the effort and stress the seizures had placed upon it.

Sam reached for a comforter and dragged it off the bed, tucking it around Dean and lifting him with a grunt to lay him back down on the nearest mattress.

"It's okay, Dean," he murmured, wishing his voice would stop shaking, wishing his hands would stop shaking. This had come out of nowhere! One minute arguing, next minute smirking, then Dean was on his back fighting this battle with his own body, his own brain, a battle his little brother could take no part in. "I'm gonna get you to the hospital, okay? Buddy?" He cupped Dean's cheek again and shook him gently, needing to feel the reassuring rasp of his brother's breath, nearly dying to see those long lashes flutter open.

"Don't call me buddy," Dean rasped and Sam's breath escaped him in a huge sigh.

"God," he breathed, grasping Dean's shoulder and holding it tight. "Are you all right?"

Dean opened his eyes and squinted. That one look told Sam everything he needed to know. That Dean's brain might still be lacking memory but it was still capable of mocking his brother for asking the dumb questions. That he was in pain, but okay, he was alive and ready to ouch and try to sit up and complain.

That he understood and forgave the dumb question, just this once.

"No I'm not okay," Dean grouched, rolling his head and ouching as his muscles stung. "What the hell happened?"

Sam shook his head. "Some kind of seizure. A bad one."

Dean squinted at him again and Sam realized the light was hurting his eyes. He twisted the ugly lamp until its brightness was shining away from the bed.

"Thanks," Dean muttered. "I gather from your face that I'm not usually prone to seizures. Right?"

"I think it's the Curse," Sam said bleakly. "It did something to your brain."

"It might have been something else?" Dean said hopefully, trying to sit up. Sam laid a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back.

"Don't try to get up," he ordered briskly. "I'm gonna get my shoes on and then take you to the Emergency Room."

"I thought you said a hospital couldn't help?"

"At this point they can't hurt," Sam muttered, digging out a dry pair of runners and jamming his feet into them. His keys were still in his wet jacket and he spent a frustrating minute pawing through damp pockets until he found them. He didn't say what he was thinking, that some seizures could damage the brain. That sometimes people died from seizures, but it seemed he didn't have to because Dean wasn't arguing with him, just watching as he moved around the room, his eyes heavy lidded and bruised.

"Don't worry," Sam promised. "I'm gonna take care of you."

End of Part One

Part Two

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	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Memories of Me  
**Author:** Gillian Middleton  
**Characters/Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating: **R**  
Total word count: **25 600  
**Warning:** Wincest.  
**Authors notes: **_Amnesia story - which by its very nature could be construed as containing a character unable to give informed consent to sex. Not non-con, perhaps dubious-con? (Also I totally made up the town this is set in.)  
_**Summary:** _While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?_

**Memories of Me**

Part 2 of 4

The doctor perused his clipboard, pen poised. "Is there a family history of epilepsy?"

Sam shook his head for Dean, who still looked groggy and out of it. He perched on the edge of the examination table and Sam hovered, ready to catch his swaying form if he should fall.

"Are you suffering from any known medical conditions? Alcohol withdrawal? Low blood sugar?"

Again Dean's eyes flicked to his brother and Sam answered. "No, nothing like that. This has never happened before."

"Has he taken any blows to the head?"

Sam was lost for words for a long moment. How did he answer that one? He'd lost count of the blows to the head they'd suffered. "Not recently," he said carefully.

"I don't suppose you timed the seizure?" the doctor asked.

Sam shrugged blankly. "I wasn't exactly thinking clearly," he said apologetically.

"That's understandable. But could you estimate? Would it have been longer than 5 minutes?"

"Oh no," Sam said with certainty. "I mean it seemed like forever, but it was only a minute or so, I'm sure."

"Well that's good news," the doctor said briskly, making another notation on the page.

"It is?"

"Actually yes. I know a tonic-clonic seizure like this can be frightening, but you did everything right. As to the cause, well, it's hard to say. We can certainly do further tests, but we wouldn't diagnose this as epilepsy, for example, until you've had at least two such seizures."

"I don't want another one," Dean said fervently. "Can't you just give me a pill or something?"

"If it does turn out to be the onset of epilepsy there are certainly some very effective treatments available. But for now I'd suggest you try to rest and recover from the stress of the seizure, and don't drive or operate any heavy machinery for a few days."

He smiled and nodded at the brothers amiably as he turned for the door. "And don't hesitate to come back if this occurs again or if you have any further problems."

"The miracle of modern medicine," Dean grumbled as he slid off the examination table. Sam automatically reached out and steadied him as he stood.

"That's not exactly fair," Sam pointed out, holding Dean's jacket open so that he could shrug back into it. "It's not like we could tell him everything."

"Should have seen your face when he asked if I'd taken a blow to the head. You looked incredibly guilty."

Sam snorted. "It was hard to keep a straight face actually."

Dean wrapped his jacket around him and stood for a moment, blinking in the harsh lights of the Emergency Room cubicle. For a moment, with his face still pale and pinched and his eyes so lost he looked very young and very vulnerable.

"Do I hate hospitals?"

Sam felt his heart wring in his chest at the forlorn question. It was still incredibly strange to see his big brother's face so open and unguarded. He'd never realized before, just how much Dean kept hidden, even from him.

Maybe especially from him.

"We've spent way too much time in Emergency Rooms in our lives, I can tell you that."

Sam pushed aside the curtain and they stepped into the hall, Dean's pace still slow and careful. He was walking the way he did after a fight, or a long drive. Stiffly, as though every muscle ached. Sam studied his brother's profile as they made their way out of the wide glass doors to the car park. "Why did you ask about the hospital? Did it seem familiar to you?"

"Nothing is familiar to me, Sam," Dean said wearily, leaning against the bonnet while Sam unlocked the car. "Nothing."

Sam helped him into the passenger seat before climbing in the driver's side, frowning as he absorbed the significant tone of Dean's last comment.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're still virtually a stranger to me, Sam. And that kinda blows your whole brotherly love theory out of the water," Dean said doggedly.

"Oh, that," Sam said, a little blankly. "I'd forgotten that."

Dean barked a short laugh. "Well, good for you. But I only have so many memories, I can't afford to forget the ones I have. Besides..." he trailed off, looking back out into the dark car park.

"Besides?" Sam asked gently.

Dean blinked slowly, profile briefly lit by a a passing car and then falling into shadow again.

"It means something to me, man," he admitted lowly. "How I feel about you means something. For better or worse you are all I have right now. My link to the world. Hell, I couldn't even answer the doc's questions back there! Couldn't tell him one damn thing about my own life. I have to rely on you for everything."

"That must be really scary," Sam said sympathetically.

"Yeah." Dean glanced at him. "I thought about pretending, you know? That I bought the whole brotherly love theory. Just to stop you from freaking out about it."

"You don't have to pretend anything to me, man," Sam said sincerely. "Whatever it is we'll deal. And whatever it is it can't be much worse than that damn seizure." He shuddered. "That sucked."

"And blowed," Dean agreed fervently.

Sam assessed his brother for a moment longer, before twisting the key and starting the car with a dull roar. A thought occurred to him and he tilted his head and shot Dean another glance.

"Why didn't you? Lie, I mean."

Dean shrugged and grimaced. "I didn't wanna,"' he said and Sam chuckled at the childish tone.

"Why?"

"Like I said, my memory's gone. Just about all I have of **me** has been the last few hours." He smiled at Sam, eyes wide and expressive. "And you," he continued softly.

Sam blinked, absorbing this.

"And I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable but what I'm feeling for you is very real to me. It's all I have."

Sam nodded, accepting the truth of this. What he'd said to Dean moments ago was true, somehow the idea that his brother might be feeling this weird attraction to him while suffering from amnesia wasn't nearly as worrying as it had been a few hours ago. They had bigger things to worry about now.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm not that freaked out."

Dean huffed a laugh. "You probably should be," he said, a little teasingly. "All this TLC you're showing is rapidly cranking my serious attraction to a serious crush."

Sam's cheeks reddened and Dean chuckled again.

"You're cute when you blush, you know."

"Shut up," Sam muttered, without heat.

"I'm just sayin', is all."

-666-

Morning found them in a diner, both having decided they'd rather go for real food than what passed for it at the next-door MacDonald's. Dean perused the slightly sticky menu with a small frown.

"Well, this sucks," he said, tossing the plastic card onto the formica table. "I don't even remember what I like."

"You like wheat germ and plankton," Sam said absently, eyes on his own menu and trying to decide between orange juice and coffee. His conscience was telling him he needed the vitamins, but his body was firmly in the coffee corner and cheering loud. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep and his back ached from sitting hunched at the table surfing the net the whole night. Not so much because he really thought he'd find anything useful about stolen memories on the paranormal websites he had book marked, but because the thought of Dean going into convulsions while he slept absolutely terrified him.

He was starting to get used to functioning on little or no sleep anyway.

"Plankton?" Dean said, sounding confused.

Sam smiled apologetically. "Sorry, force of habit."

"Dude," Dean said reproachfully. "No fair teasing the mentally impaired."

"Been doing it all my life," Sam joked.

Dean smiled back at him, looking momentarily entranced. He leaned forward and murmured softly. "If we have the same parents, how did you score that adorable dimple?"

Sam sputtered and glanced quickly around the busy diner. "Did you just call me adorable?" he hissed.

"I called your dimple adorable," Dean returned mildly. He plucked the menu back up and studied it again. "That's what you get for teasing."

"Won't happen again," Sam said fervently. Dean held up the menu with an enquiring look at his brother and Sam considered another joke before thinking better of it. Dean had always been fearless when it came to payback, and now he had so much more ammunition that ever before.

"Just pick anything fried," he advised shortly. "Your taste buds will thank you, although your arteries might not."

"Pfft, screw them," Dean said cheerfully. "What have they ever done for me?"

Sam shook his head, fondness over taking exasperation. Dean could do it to him every time.

"So, our plan for today?" Dean asked as the waitress hurried away with their order.

"Back to the museum, check the fallout from that mess last night, see if we can come up with a plan to break back in and smash that sucker where it lays."

"Clobberin' time," Dean grinned in satisfaction.

-666-

Sam frowned as he pulled up in the museum's small parking lot. Two police cruisers and a forensics van took up most of the other spaces and even as they sat there, the Impala's engine idly growling, an ambulance pulled up.

"What the hell?"

They mooched their way over to the nearest cruiser where a deputy was leaning against the bonnet, directing the ambulance officers to the back entrance.

"What's going on?" Sam said, playing the interested bystander.

The deputy assessed them swiftly. He was young, maybe Sam's age and he was twitching with excitement.

"Big robbery," he said excitedly. "Haven't seen anything like this around here lately. Real professional job."

Sam feigned polite interest, fighting to keep the disbelief off his face. "Anything stolen?"

"Hell yes!" the young deputy enthused. "Only the entire Brackett Family Collection. Rubies and gold and everything! Gone!"

"Wow," Dean said, flicking Sam a quick glance. "So, what's the ambulance for?"

"The security guard. Took a nasty blow to the head. Blunt force trauma," the deputy said wisely.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked.

"He's conscious but he's kind of an old guy. Could have been worse, I suppose," he admitted reluctantly.

Sam scanned the old building with narrow eyes. "Uh, any suspects?"

"It's early days yet," the deputy said defensively. "Besides, you should have seen the real pro job these guys did getting in. I doubt they'll drop right into our laps. Probably back in LA by now," he said enviously. His radio crackled and he thumbed the button, smiling importantly. "I better go, guys. They must need me."

"What hell's happening, Sam?" Dean said urgently as the deputy strutted over the grass and up the walk.

"No idea. But what are the odds of this place getting robbed twice in one night?"

"You booked in a hurry, right? Once I got zapped? Maybe someone just found the place unlocked and took advantage of the situation."

"Maybe," Sam said slowly. The ambulance officers were coming back down the walk, wheeling a stretcher with the old security guard propped up in a sitting position. A field bandage was strapped to the back of his head and he held an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"So I guess we won't be breaking in to the museum tonight," Dean observed as they drove back through town. "Damn, and I was looking forward to smashing something."

"We have to find that pendant."

"Well, duh. Any ideas where to start?"

Sam blew out a breath. "How about the hospital?"

-666-

"I'm here to see my uncle," Sam said, leaning over the reception desk with his best worried face. "He's the guard down at the Brackett Museum? I heard on the news that he was hurt?"

"Oh, yes," the nurse said, smiling at him sympathetically. "Ted Lewis. He's still in Emergency, I'm afraid." She was fair haired and about 50. Her flowery name badge said Patty.

Sam turned his mouth down. "Is it that bad?" he said tragically.

"Well, I can't really say until the doctor is finished..." Patty said hesitantly. Sam sniffed and looked anguished and Patty glanced around the quiet reception and patted his hand in a soothing manner. "You just wait here, honey, and I'll run and find out." She bustled down the corridor.

Dean poked his head around the corner and grinned admiringly. "Oh, you are good."

Sam flicked a glance over his shoulder. "Years of practice," he said dryly.

"Well you had me about ready to cry. So, is this part of what we do? Lie to nice people?

"When necessary." Sam studied his brother quizzically. Dean usually seemed to enjoy the lies and deception, getting a kick out of how outrageous he could be, how many silly names he could slip in before anyone noticed. "Why? Does it bother you?"

"No," Dean shrugged carelessly. "All in a good cause, I guess. You just, I don't know. You just don't look the type. You look so innocent and fresh faced."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Something I take advantage of shamelessly, believe me. I'm not proud of it."

"But you lie like an expert, man."

Now that was discomfort and Sam quickly put his finger on its cause. "Not to you, Dean," he said softly. Sincerely. "We don't lie to each other, okay? We might not tell each other everything, in fact growing up the way we did it was sheer self defense to keep some things to ourselves. But we don't lie."

Dean opened his mouth to respond then broke off and ducked back around the corner when the nurse bustled back up.

"Honey, you have nothing to worry about," Patty said, taking his hand and squeezing it. "Doctor says it was a simple head wound and they'll probably just keep him for a few hours in case of concussion. It could have been a whole lot worse."

Sam squeezed her hand then leaned forward and kissed her round pink cheek. "Thank you so much."

Patty swatted his arm and told him it was no problem but her cheeks were just a bit pink as she headed back around her side of the desk.

-666-

"Dude, you made her day," Dean snickered.

"Did you hear what she said?" Sam said intently. "It could have been worse, same as the deputy said."

"So, what, you're thinking inside job?"

"Maybe. Dear Uncle Ted does his 8 o'clock round and finds the door open, the alarms down and case removed."

"Uh huh," Dean mused. "And he's thinking, all I have to do is grab the jewels and rough myself up a bit. Perfect cover."

"Yeah," Sam said thoughtfully. "Maybe. It's a lead anyway."

"So what next, Sherlock?"

"We find out about Ted Lewis, and where the hell he might have stashed a fortune in purloined jewels."

-666-

"Poor old Ted." The elderly lady idly scratched the dirty white fur of the cat she was clutching in her arms. Straggles of dyed red hair escaped the hair net bristling with curlers on her head. "What's this world coming to? Used to be this was a nice safe town. Why, when I was a girl-"

"Does Ted have any family that you know of?" Sam interrupted gently.

The old lady frowned for a moment before getting back on track. "No, no family, he spends every holiday alone."

"Does he ever talk to you about leaving San Marco? Traveling maybe?" The cat in her arms stretched and turned a smug look on Sam, who reached out and scritched it behind one ear.

"Ted never talks much at all, truth to tell. Keeps to himself. Sad fact is he's had more visitors today than he's ever had before."

"Visitors?" Dean eyed the cat with dislike and it turned its nose up at him and began to purr more loudly. "The police?"

The old lady shrugged and her hair net slipped down a notch. "No, why would the police come here? He's the victim isn't he? It was this reporter, this lady reporter. Nosed around, asked a lot of questions." She narrowed her eyes. "You reporters too?"

Sam smiled. "Freelance. What paper did she work for?"

"San Marco ain't got but one newspaper. The Star. You gonna write a story about this?"

"Maybe. Did you get the reporter's name?"

"Linda something," the old lady sniffed disapprovingly. "Don't like to see women doing a job like that. Why, in my day-"

"Thanks so much for your time," Dean cut her off with a charming smile.

-666-

Linda Yates was sitting behind her desk frowning fiercely at her screen and typing furiously at her keyboard.

"Excuse me," Sam said quietly at her shoulder and she jumped, spinning around. Her shoulder length brown bob caught the harsh overhead lights of the office. Sam smiled, knowing how it showed his dimple and using it ruthlessly. "Sorry, did I startle you?"

Linda raised a brow at the boyish charm. "No problem." She glanced around the busy copy room. "You just get used to blocking the noise out around here. Can I help you?"

"My name's Sam and this is my brother, Dean," Sam said politely. "We were just talking to Mrs. Garrity over at our Uncle Ted's place?"

"Ted Lewis?" Linda said indignantly. "She told me he didn't have any family."

Dean smiled confidentially. "She's quite a character."

"That's one way to put it," Linda muttered.

"Thing is, Miss Yates -"

"Linda."

Sam smiled again. "Linda. We're a bit worried about our uncle. A deputy told us that there's talk this thing at the museum might be an inside job."

"We don't want to see anything pinned on poor old Uncle Ted," Dean said earnestly.

"I don't think your uncle has anything to worry about," Linda said dryly. "I don't know what your contact at the sheriff's office told you, though I can guess which pea-brain it was. But the cops have bigger fish to fry on this one."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the letter," Linda said as if it were obvious. "Some loony sent to the paper. Your uncle didn't tell you?"

"Yeah, he mentioned it," Dean hurried to assure her. "But we don't know all the details."

Linda rifled through some papers on her desk and handed over a photo copied page. "Pretty much comes right out and says they're gonna be stolen," she said as Dean glanced over it. "They printed it, it made good copy. But no one took it seriously until this happened."

Sam watched with a worried frown as Dean's face paled and his jaw tightened. He handed the page to Sam. "And this was sent to the newspaper?"

"And the sheriff's office," Linda confirmed.

Sam was hardly listening as he scanned the page. "Can we get a copy of this?" He looked up and smiled reassuringly into Linda's doubtful face. "It might make Uncle Ted feel better if he can see it for himself."

-666-

"Can you believe this?" Sam said, using a pencil to circle parts of the page he was studying. "Satanists? It's bizarre."

"I've given up being surprised," Dean said, dunking a fry in ketchup and scarfing it down. "Nothing makes much sense with a huge hole where your brain used to be."

"Huge?" Sam said automatically. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Ha ha."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sorry, force of habit. Okay, it prattles on about worshipping Satan, blood of the goat, blah blah blah. Then listen to this part. **The power of the Curse can be unleashed by those who worship His Darkness**."

"Well, the legends about this Curse have been circulating for years, right?"

"Yeah. But _power of the Curse_? How do you _use_ a curse? What does it mean? "

Dean shook his head. "It means someone's elevator's not going all the way to the top, seriously."

"But those who worship the darkness." Sam stressed. "D'you think it's some kind of cult or something?"

"What I think is that we're screwed," Dean said, frowning and rubbing his neck. "Tracking down some greedy old security guard was a cakewalk compared to trying to get a handle on some bunch of black robed loonies."

Sam's attention sharpened on him. "You okay?"

Dean dropped his hand. "I'm fine," he said shortly.

"It's just you were rubbing your neck before your seizure last night," Sam said worriedly.

"I'm fine," Dean repeated snappishly. "I think I pulled some muscles during that damn fit." He grimaced and pushed his half-eaten plate away. "Don't worry, Sam, I'm not gonna spaz-out here and embarrass you."

Sam shook his head reproachfully. "That's not what I'm worried about."

Dean grimaced again and shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, man" he muttered. "I just don't know how much longer I can take this, that's all. I just feel so..." He shook his head, seeming lost for words.

"We'll fix this," Sam said urgently, reaching out and taking his brother's wrist in gentle fingers. "I promise."

Dean looked down at Sam's long fingers encircling his wrist. "I just feel so... useless, you know?" he said lowly. He pulled back until Sam's fingers were touching his own and gripped them tightly. "I look at you working and I think there's stuff I should be doing, saying. I feel like I can't back you up like this."

"You're doing fine," Sam told him honestly.

"What happens if we can't get these jewels back?"

"We'll get them back," Sam said confidently. He squeezed Dean's hand then gently extricated his fingers from his brother's grasp. "Let's get back to the motel, there's something I want to look up in Dad's journal."

Dean nodded but he didn't speak. He just looked down at his empty hand, flexing his fingers slowly.

End of Part Two

Part Three

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	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Memories of Me  
**Author:** Gillian Middleton  
**Characters/Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating: **R **  
Total word count: **25 600  
**Warning:** Wincest.  
**Authors notes: **_Amnesia story - which by its very nature could be construed as containing a character unable to give informed consent to sex. Not non-con, perhaps dubious-con? (Also I totally made up the town this is set in.)  
_**Summary:** _While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?_

**Memories of Me**

Part 3 of 4

"I knew it, I knew I'd heard something like this before."

"What?" Dean pulled the chair up next to Sam and leaned over the faded old writing.

"This is a case Dad worked in '96 in Alabama. This guy had a collection of objects from an old hospital that had been operating back before the civil war. You know, bone saws and stuff."

Dean grimaced. "Yuck. Who'd want to collect something like that?"

"No idea. Anyway, there was a series of bizarre murders in the guy's apartment building and the guy himself was the suspect. Dad was investigating the idea that the dude had been possessed by the objects and using them to kill his neighbors. But before the guy could be arrested the whole collection was stolen."

"Did Dad find out who did it?"

"It was cultists," Sam said, pointing out the section on the page.

Dean frowned at the crabbed script. "How can you read that?"

"Yeah, it's a skill," Sam chuckled. "Anyway, long story short - these guys believed they could harness the power of whatever curse was haunting these objects. And take it for themselves. Now the Brackett Curse is pretty powerful, it's killed dozens of people over the last century. They must figure they have some way to steal that power, And I guess they know the whole 25 year thing as well as us, so it's not such a huge co-incidence that they should show up the same night we did."

"Yeah, if you say so." Dean picked up the photocopied page with Sam's neat pencil marks on it. "**The power of the Curse can be unleashed by those who worship His Darkness**," he quoted. "Looks like a similar deal all right. What now?"

"We hit the local occult stores, there can't be too many in a town like this. Find out where the Goths hang out."

"I got a question for you man," Dean said, tossing the page down on the table. "How come these freaks can waltz in and steal the jewels with no problem, and I just pick up that damned pendant and become Billy No-memory?"

"No idea."

"Remember my theory about those things knowing we were after them?"

Sam made his disbelieving face.

"I know, cursed objects don't think. I'm just sayin', when we find it we better make sure we can destroy it without touching it, that's all. Who knows what it... might..."

Suddenly Dean was gripping his arm, hard enough to hurt and one look at his face told Sam all he needed to know. Dean's eyes were wide with fear, his muscles already twitching.

"Sam," he gasped out. "God, Sam-"

"It's all right," Sam said, taking his brother by the forearms and pulling him from the chair and onto the bed. "It's all right, Dean. I've got you."

"Sam!" was all Dean had a chance to call out before he was arching in agony, back a perfect bow as the spasm shook his body. All Sam could do was watch helplessly again, shoving away the bedside table and anything that might connect with his brother's flailing limbs and cause injury.

"Dean," he murmured over and over again, helpless against the pain wracking his brother's body, the tears that poured down his temples onto the coverlet beneath his thrashing head. Sam wasn't timing it, he didn't have to, this one was longer than the last, nearly two minutes long. Two minutes that seemed a lifetime as the spasms faded, leaving Dean twitching, his breath heaving, his lip bleeding where he must have bitten it.

"It's okay," Sam said soothingly, wiping clumsily at the tears on his own face. When it was obvious the seizure was over he sprang into the bathroom and grabbed a clean wash cloth, soaking it with cold water before wringing it out with shaking hands. Back at the bed he gently wiped the blood off Dean's mouth and dabbed a soft corner of the cloth against the jagged tear on his lip. "You're gonna be all right."

"Sonuva bitch," Dean swore groggily, eye lashes fluttering. "Did you get the name of that truck?"

"Don't try and move yet," Sam said thickly.

"No problem." In fact it seemed to be all Dean could do to open his eyes and he blinked in the harsh light before Sam remembered to lean over and wrench the plug from the wall.

"Sam," he said groggily.

"I'm here."

"I can't do this any more." A fresh tear trickled from the corner of his eye and Sam gently swiped at it with the cloth.

"I know, man. We'll fix this, I promise."

"Don't take me back to the hospital, all right?" Dean murmured, then his eyes were drifting closed and his hitched breathing began to even out as he drifted into sleep.

Sam bowed his head, not even bothering now to wipe away his own tears. It was weird, to be sitting so close to his brother and yet to miss him so much. He couldn't help thinking that Dean would know what to do here. Couldn't help wishing he could just talk to Dean for a few minutes, the old Dean, the one who always made even the worse problems seem small enough to cope with.

_"Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I'm here."_

-666-

Sam stirred awake as the side of his bed depressed with Dean's weight. He opened sticky eyes and peered up at him, noting by the long shadows in the room that it must be close to sunset. "Dean?" he murmured. "You okay?"

"Sorry," Dean murmured. "Ouch." He licked gingerly at his swollen bottom lip. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," Sam said gruffly, pushing his elbows underneath him to rise. Dean's open hand came down on his chest and pushed him back onto the mattress.

"Don't get up," Dean said softly. "You look like you really need the rest. In fact you look worse than I do."

Sam studied his brother's face through sleep swollen eyes. Other than pale smudges around his eyes and the torn lip Dean did look much better. Though Sam had to wonder how many more seizures like that his brother's body could take.

"Why are you dressed?"

"I'm starved. In fact I'm so starved even a Big Mac sounds good to me right now."

"Wait for me and I'll come with you," Sam said but Dean just pushed him back again.

"It's next door, dude. I think I can make it next door."

Sam tilted his head and just looked at him in concern. "Dean," he began in his best reasonable tone.

"Sa- am," Dean mocked back. "I'm okay, all right? Odds are I won't spaz-out again so soon."

"We don't know that."

"We don't know much of anything, do we?" Dean said quietly. "We don't know where the jewels are, we don't know who took 'em. We don't know why my brain is attacking me from the inside." He looked down at his hand where it still lay on Sam's chest, fingers idly playing with the button on his flannel shirt. "We don't know why..."

Sam frowned at the soft pain in his brother's voice. Suddenly he was ultra aware of the warmth of Dean's hand through the layers of his shirts. Aware of the intimacy of the small room, the long shadows, the quiet hiss of traffic on the wet road outside.

_Never rains in California, my ass, _Sam thought.

More than anything he was aware of Dean in a way he had never been before. The warmth of his hip at the edge of the mattress. The cool scent of his breath. The fine golden rasp of beard on his cheeks. His eyes as he lifted his lashes and gazed down.

"Dean," Sam said gently, shaking his head. "No."

"I know," Dean returned, his voice a whisper of sound. "I know, Sam. See, that's the only thing I do know." The hand still on Sam's chest slid up, over his breast, his collar bone, onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck. Sam's heart was pounding, but despite the vulnerability of his position there was no fear in him. No panic. Just an ineffable sadness because he could see what his brother wanted now, what he needed, what he craved.

And he knew he couldn't give it to him.

The warm hand reached his cheek, cupped it, thumb stroking, barely grazing the fullness of Sam's bottom lip. Dean's eyes were dark, his tongue darted out and touched his bottom lip again and then he was leaning forward, and it would have been so easy to just relax under that, to give Dean what he needed and wanted, to maybe even make up for those times when he hadn't been able or willing to give Dean what he wanted.

But instead Sam brought his own hand up and gently gripped Dean's shoulder, stilling his movement, stopping that downward glide.

Dean's eyes moved from his lips to his eyes and Sam tried, he really tried to convey everything he was feeling there. His love, his understanding. Even his forgiveness.

A frown flickered across Dean's brow and then his lashes dropped over his eyes. "I know," he said again, voice dull. With a sigh he pushed up off the bed and paced the room.

"Dean?" Sam said quietly, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up. "I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Dean said with a bitter laugh. "None of this is your fault."

"It's not your fault either."

"Yeah but I'm the one feeling this," Dean said thickly. "I'm the one feeling this way." He spun around jerkily. "Why is this happening, Sam?"

"I don't know," Sam said painfully. His eyes stung as he watched a silent tear slide down his brother's cheek.

"How can I love you so much when you're the one person on earth I can never have?" Sam winced at the agonized question. "It's not fair."

"It'll be all right," Sam insisted. "When you get your memory back-"

"When you get your brother back you mean," Dean said bitterly.

"You're my brother," Sam said deeply.

"No, I'm not," Dean said, lips twisting derisively. "I'm not him. To tell you the truth - I'm starting to hate him."

"Don't say that," Sam protested, eyes bruised.

"I mean it. You'll get him back and then I'll just be some memory the two of you will laugh about. I'll be gone."

Sam shook his head fiercely, jumping to his feet and reaching for his brother's shoulders. "You _are_ him, Dean."

With shocking speed both Dean's hands came up and pushed. Taken by surprise Sam stumbled back, his butt hitting the edge of the bed and sliding off until he sat hard on the floor. He stared up at Dean in surprise but his brother was looking at his own hands, self disgust on his face.

"I can't do this any more," Dean muttered. He met Sam's eyes, shaking his head in denial. "I can't do this any more."

And before Sam could do more than propel himself to his feet Dean was hauling open the front door and disappearing into the new night.

-666-

His feet were bare and the asphalt was cracked and broken but Sam still hobbled all the way across the forecourt in the rain before he admitted he wasn't going to catch up with Dean. Cursing all the way he limped back to the room and wasted long minutes drying his feet and jamming them into trainers. Then he grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out.

San Marco was a typical California beach town after dark. Long dark stretches of closed stores and outlets, and then one whole street lit up and pulsing with life, cars cruising, gaggles of girls and guys hanging out on corners, in cafes, spilling into the street from the bars. Music beat a powerful rhythm, different in every venue but somehow combining into a steady booming drumbeat of sound that pounded in Sam's ears and made his temples throb.

He kept spotting Dean look alikes everywhere in the crowd, the right haircut, leather jacket, all in black, wraparound shades - who wears sunglasses at night?

But time after time it was someone else, sometimes not even close but desperation was coloring Sam's vision, sheer yearning to find his brother deceiving him time after time.

"Dammit, Dean," he swore under his breath, but how could he blame Dean for this? How could begin to understand how difficult this must be for his brother?

And yet, what else could he have done? In a way Dean was ill, not in his right mind. It was all very well telling himself he could have offered Dean some little comfort to get him through this painful time. But soon - god willing - _his_ Dean would be back, prickly and wise cracking as ever. And how the hell could Sam have borne to face him if he'd given into _this_ Dean?

Guiltily he was aware he was doing just what Dean had accused him of an hour earlier. Separating them in his mind, this Dean, that Dean. His Dean, and this new Dean. This stranger who looked at him with his brother's eyes but with desires his brother had never felt for him in a million years.

But I could have reached for him, Sam thought painfully as he drove yet another street, cruised by a bar in a seedier part of town. Even if I couldn't kiss him, even if that was out of the question. I could have put my arm around him, offered him comfort. A hug.

Even at lunch when Dean had sought the comfort of his hand Sam had pulled away.

Force of habit? The Winchesters were not a touchy feely family. Sure his Dad would give them rough hugs when they were kids, a gruff 'Way to go, kiddo,' a tousling of hair that always made them grimace and smooth the offended locks back down but had them grinning inside.

But they'd grown out of that as they'd grown into men. The only time in the last decade that Sam could remember a hug from his Dad had been their aborted meeting in Chicago months before.

The memory brought tears to his eyes and he pulled over to the curb to wipe them, reflecting on how emotional he'd been the last couple of days. How Dean would laugh at him if he knew. How he'd playfully mock and call him a girl.

_His_ Dean.

"Where the hell are you, Dean?"

When had he last hugged Dean anyway? Could he remember the last time? Was it back before his boyish admiration for his big brother had turned to teenaged impatience with everything about their lives?

How much money did Dean have? Why had it not occurred to him to ask? But Dean took care of the money, picked up the credit cards from their post office boxes, made up the names to put on the applications, hustled at pool and cards.

And Sam just sat back and let him - teased him about it even. But didn't complain when it paid the bills and restocked the armory and filled the car with gas.

When _had_ he last hugged his big brother? He'd tried that last day before leaving to go to college, when his fists were still clenched from that last fight with Dad, when he'd walked out of their last digs with his duffel bag and 160 bucks in his worn old wallet. He'd tried to hug Dean then, tried to reach for him. But Dean had only slapped at his hand, grabbed it and when Sam had pulled back there'd been another $200 in twenties in his fist.

And Dean had been gone, jumping into the car and tearing away with the smell of rubber burning on the road.

That extra 200 had sure made a difference blowing into San Francisco.

_"Just say you'll take care of yourself."_

-666-

The town just wasn't that big, it just didn't have that many bars but Sam had scoured them all before deciding there was no more he could do that night. It was maybe midnight when he pointed the car back to the motel and nosed into the lot. And then he let out a breath he felt he'd been holding for the last few hours as the headlights swept the figure crouched under the awning by the door, head bowed against the damp chill of the rain-swept night.

He wanted to curse and rail and _dammit Dean where the hell have you been_? But Dean didn't even look up as Sam swung his long legs out of the car and when he finally did tilt his head a little towards him Sam saw the blank pinched misery of his face and he didn't have the heart to.

He unlocked the motel door and stood back as Dean crossed the threshold, booted feet leaving damp tracks on the carpet.

Sam went straight to the bathroom and cranked the shower up, waiting till steam billowed out before leaning out the door. Dean still stood where he'd left him, shoulders hunched, shivers trembling up and down his frame.

"Dean," he said firmly, holding out his hand and Dean shrugged and walked over, avoiding his hand and sidestepping into the bathroom.

"Leave the door open," Sam told him. "And for god's sake if you feel a seizure coming sit down fast. Better than falling down."

Dean's jaw tightened at the command which Sam actually took as a good sign. Quiet-compliant Dean was actually more disturbing than I-want-to-mack-my-brother Dean. Ignoring his instruction Dean closed the door behind him with a slam and Sam sank down onto the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. The relief at having Dean back safe and sound was dizzying. Every nightmare scenario that had run through his head over the last few hours made a return appearance and he groaned at the thought of how badly things could have gone wrong.

What if Dean had just vanished? Hopped a bus, cadged a ride, walked away from the weirdness of the life he had woken up to and the stranger who'd spent the last few days drawing him close and pushing him away?

Who the hell could have blamed him?

The door swung open and Dean appeared in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist and an irritated expression on his face. "Check it out," he snapped. "The grown man managed to bathe himself without dying. You must be so proud."

"Where did you go?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean rolled his eyes and stomped over with as much attitude as he could manage in bare feet and a pink towel.

"Where the hell was I gonna go?" he grumbled. "That's the whole reason I was in a snit, wasn't it? I don't even know anybody except you."

"Was that why you were in a snit?" Sam tilted his head and huffed a laugh. "_In a snit_?"

"Shut up," Dean ordered. He sat on the edge of the bed and dragged his duffel over. "Do I own anything that isn't black? Oh, look." He pulled out a shirt. "Gray. Protect my eyes from the burst of color."

"It's how we grew up," Sam shrugged. "Dark colors don't show the dirt or blood stains."

"No offense to the way we grew up, dude, but that is a jacked up reason to buy clothes."

"Yeah." Sam watched as Dean finally grew impatient with the search and tipped the whole bag onto the bed. Finally he plucked out a clean pair of shorts and a khaki t-shirt.

"Cos khaki's almost a color, right?"

"Dean?" Sam said huskily. "I'm sorry about before."

Dean looked down at the soft old clothes in his grasp, tightening his hands around the worn fabric. "I told you," he said softly. "You don't have anything to be sorry about."

"Maybe. I probably could have handled all that a bit better. But I want to tell you - there is no other Dean, okay? You are him. You may not remember everything right now, but you are the same person - I see it in everything you say. Every move that you make. You were worried about not backing me up, but, man, you were there behind me every step of the way today. It would have been easy to forget that you were going in blind, working without a map. You had my back just like you always do."

"I'm the one should be saying sorry," Dean admitted lowly. "I just wanted..." His cheeks flushed. "Well, you know what I wanted. It wasn't fair to put you in that position."

"None of this has been fair." Sam pushed his fingers through his damp hair ruefully. "You know if you had your memory back right now you'd be ribbing the hell out of me for the way I've acted through this. Like some damned girl."

Dean's gaze flickered up to him. "I would?"

"Yeah." Sam thought about it. "Actually for someone who admires women so much you can be a bit sexist with your choice of insults."

"I'm a dog, remember?"

"And a sleaze," Sam teasingly reminded him.

Dean smiled lopsidedly over at him and Sam began to think that maybe it would be all right, that they would get through this.

"Tomorrow," Dean said abruptly. "I mean today I guess."

"What?"

"Those jewels, Sam, they could be anywhere, and you know it.'

"Dean-"

"And if this cult thing doesn't pan out. If these things are gone... Then so am I."

Sam gaped at him.

"And I'm not coming back."

"What are you talking about? We'll break this curse, Dean. Whatever it takes, we'll do it."

"Maybe," Dean said dubiously. "I'm just saying, if we don't."

"But where would you go?" Sam stuttered, trying to wrap his head around the idea. Dean didn't leave. He was the one who walked away, not Dean.

Dean shrugged. "Away from here," he said simply.

Sam's throat tightened. "You mean away from me, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said sincerely, eyes sad. "I wish I could make you understand. How hard it is to be so close to someone and yet so far away. I mean, rejection I can handle." Dean smiled again, with his mouth if not his eyes. "Must be one of those skills I still have even if I don't know where I got it. But you don't know what it's like, Sam, when you look at me with so much love in your eyes. Or when you touch me with such tenderness. And I can't reach out and touch you back without it being wrong."

Sam could only nod, fighting back his tears, jaw clenched against the pain.

"All this," Dean whispered, gesturing at the room around them, the intimacy of the lamplight and the tumbled sheets. "I can't live like this. I'm not strong enough. I know that makes me a selfish prick, and I'm sorry. I just know if I try to stay I'm going to do or say something that will step right over that line."

"You shouldn't have to feel like this," Sam said, eyes stinging painfully. "You shouldn't have to feel guilty for loving somebody."

"Not somebody," Dean said painfully. "My brother. I saw your face when you realized what I wanted. You were horrified, man. You knew it was wrong."

Sam frowned, trying to remember those moments of shock and horror. It all seemed so long ago now. "You know, Dean," he said slowly, feeling his way. "You and I have had a few problems over the years. In fact we didn't even talk for more than two years once."

Dean blinked in surprise. "Really?"

"Really. But whatever we've been through, however much we've argued and bitched at each other I never doubted one thing." Sam looked up and met his brother's eyes squarely. "That you love me. As much as I love you."

"Well," Dean said, red flags blooming on his cheeks.

"You've always been there for me, man."

Dean gave him a pained half smile and Sam looked back at him with a lifetime of love. He hated this feeling of helplessness. Hated that he wanted to offer comfort but didn't know how to without making the situation worse. Fear was lancing through him now, acid hot. He was losing Dean, losing his brother, he could feel him slipping further and further away with every moment that passed.

Maybe tomorrow, if they could find this damn pendant, end this Curse...

But right now tomorrow seemed a million years away. In this crappy little room, in this strange town. In a lifetime full of strange towns. All he had now was Dean, and he couldn't lose him, not to this, not to some lunatic old curse. He couldn't let his hopes for tomorrow cloud what had to be done tonight, right now, this minute. To get them to tomorrow.

And then suddenly his path was there before him and he was amazed he hadn't seen it before. Because Dean _had _always been there for him, even when he hadn't agreed with him, even when it would have been a hard fight to pick out which of them had been acting like the biggest immature jerk.

And now it was Sam's turn to be there for him.

On legs suddenly shaky with nerves Sam stood and took that small step to Dean's side, sinking down beside him on the edge of the bed. The eyes Dean lifted to him were weary, ages old, filled with sadness. And confusion.

"Sam?"

Slowly, to give Dean the chance to pull away, Sam reached for his brother's hand where it lay nerveless on the crumpled clothes on his lap.

"What are you doing?"

Swallowing hard Sam lifted Dean's hand and grazed the knuckles with his lips.

"Sam?" Dean said, voice trembling.

Sam moistened his lips nervously and kissed Dean's hand again, turning it gently and laying a soft caress on his calloused palm. Dean's fingers jerked convulsively and he lifted his free hand and touched Sam's wrist, wrapping his fingers around it and holding it tight.

"Please, Sam," he said brokenly. "Don't."

Sam smiled against the shower-warm skin, feeling the tremors in Dean's body next to his, hearing the shortness of his breath.

"Why?" he whispered, feeling Dean shake at the warm exhalation of breath against his sensitive skin.

"Because you don't want this," Dean forced out.

"Apparently I do."

"No," Dean said forcefully, pulling his hand out of his brother's grip. "I didn't tell you I was leaving to force your hand, Sam. I wasn't trying to blackmail you."

"I never thought you were," Sam said honestly. He reached back over and slowly and deliberately took Dean's hand in his own again.

"Then what the hell is this about?" Dean said, eyes wide as Sam lifted the captive hand and shaped it around his jaw, leaning into it with a sigh. "Is this some kind of guilt trip? You think you owe me? Or is this your idea of brotherly love?"

Sam gazed at his brother, knitting his brow while he genuinely turned the options over in his mind before deciding on his answer.

"Yes," he said simply. "All of the above." Taking a deep breath he leaned over, keeping his eyes open and watching as Dean's eyes widened even further. But the other man didn't pull away and then it was happening, Sam's lips were pressed to Dean's and they kissed for long moments. It was so chaste it almost counted as brotherly, or it might have if Dean's eyes hadn't been smoldering so fiercely as Sam pulled back.

"We're brothers," Dean whispered hoarsely, putting it out there, stating it baldly as if convincing himself as well as Sam.

Sam met his eyes. "I haven't forgotten," he whispered back.

Dean's other hand came up and he cupped Sam's face tenderly. "I have."

"I know." Sam's eyes flickered away for a moment. "That's something to worry about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Dean said bemusedly "That's a million years away."

Despite the intensity of the moment Sam huffed a laugh, marveling at how much alike they were sometimes, for all their differences. Oddly it made him feel better.

Dean's eyes followed the dimpled smile and produced a big eyed reproachful look. "Oh that's not fair," he said defensively. "No fair pulling the big guns on me."

"What can I say?" Sam chuckled. "The dimples get 'em every time." He turned his cheek into Dean's hand, feeling the warmth emanate from his flushed skin. "You want this, Dean. You need it."

"So you make some kind of sacrifice of yourself?"

Sam considered this. "A loving sacrifice," he allowed honestly. "It's all I have to give you now."

"I want you to want it too."

"Then show me," Sam challenged. "Make me want it too."

Dean's eyes searched his and Sam met them fearlessly, more sure than ever that this was right.

"I warned you I wasn't strong enough," Dean told him and Sam knew the battle was over. Dean would not fight this any more.

Oddly this was when Sam began to feel really nervous. He could feel his heart pounding under his ribs as Dean's hands gently worked the buttons on his flannel shirt open. He spread the sides apart and studied the gray t-shirt Sam had on underneath. "How many layers are you wearing?" he murmured.

"I feel the cold," Sam stuttered as he slipped his arms from the long sleeved shirt.

"I'd say you were too skinny, but, dude," Dean said admiringly as he smoothed his hands over the planes of Sam's chest through the thin material. "I've seen you without your shirt on."

The open admiration brought a flush to Sam's cheeks and he ducked his head shyly as Dean chuckled.

"You blushing?" he asked delightedly and Sam could feel himself squirming. He _so_ did not blush. After his awkward teenage years he'd actually become quite comfortable with women, easily making friends as well as attracting potential lovers.

But he wasn't with a woman now and he amazed himself at how insecure he felt about all this. It was so important that he get this right, so important that he be there for his brother, that he give him this. Suddenly impatient he pulled his shirt over his head and pushed Dean back down on the bed, shivering as Dean's bare thigh slid against the well washed fabric of his jeans, fine dusting of golden hairs rasping softly.

Frowning in concentration Sam licked his lips and leaned forward, pressing an urgent kiss to Dean's lips, deliberately opening his mouth and stroking his tongue over the ripe fullness.

"Ouch," Dean muttered and Sam felt a sting of shame as he tasted blood in his mouth.

"Oh god, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, rolling over onto his back, bringing a shaking hand to his brow and rubbing his forehead worriedly. "I forgot your lip."

"Sam, it's okay," Dean said soothingly, heaving himself up a little on the bed and rolling to his elbow. The lamp was behind him, limning his hair, turning it a soft gold in the muted light. "Calm down, okay? This isn't some kind of test you're taking."

Sam relaxed at the gentle humor in Dean's voice, laying back on the pillow and gazing a little anxiously into worried green eyes. "I don't want to mess this up," he admitted.

Dean laid a hand on his brother's chest over the wild throb of his heart. "We can still stop this," he offered quietly. "It already means so much that you want to give me this. Please don't do something you'll regret later."

And Sam actually considered that for a moment, considered getting up off this bed and crossing to his own. Stepping away from this intimate little space they had created in this cozy little room. Outside cars swept along the wet road and the wind blew a gust of raindrops against the window. Outside was the real world, the one they had never quite fitted into, the one where they were always the outsiders.

Sam shivered and reached out, wrapping a big hand around Dean's shoulder, curving it over the smattering of freckles on the golden skin.

"I don't want to stop," he admitted. "This... This isn't just about you, Dean. It's about me too. Me giving to you. Please let me? Please?"

Dean's gentle concern faded and his eyes grew heated as they flitted over Sam's face, from his beseeching eyes to the soft flush mantling high cheekbones to the fullness of his lips.

"Stop me if it gets too much," Dean said thickly, but he didn't leave Sam even a moment to agree to the shaky request before his lips were descending and there was no pushing him away this time as Sam parted his lips to that unhesitating exploration, strong jaw opening as Dean's hand rested against it, cupping, stroking.

It was strange, a man's lips on his, that soft rasp of incipient beard, a strong jaw working against his own. The flat planes of a man's chest against his own broad rib cage.

But it was also wildly familiar because this was Dean's mouth on his, Dean's hands that stroked, slid over his skin, calluses caressing deliciously. Dean who was making love to his mouth as if worshipping it, twisting his head, making throaty little noises.

And Sam could feel the familiarity of it through the strangeness - that these were the hands that had held him his entire life, that lifted him when he fell, supported him when he stumbled, soothed him when he was fretful. Shouldn't that familiarity be wrong, wasn't that the taboo being broken here? Shouldn't it have _felt_ wrong? Did it? Through the familiarity and the strangeness and the unexpected accord and the heat?

Where was the wrong?

There was a subtle shift of weight and then Dean lay on top of him, around him, body pressed to his, hot naked skin sweat damp with arousal, pulse points beating rapidly. His eyes were wide open in the dim lamplight, fixed on Sam's and so full of love that Sam felt his throat close up, felt tears start in his eyes and roll down his temples.

"Shh," Dean soothed, soft lips tracking the tears, kitten-rough tongue tasting them. "Shh, Sam. It's all right."

It had been so long since he'd felt the satisfaction of a lover's weight pressing against him. Dean flexed his hips and instinct Sam didn't even know he possessed had him spreading his legs, gasping at the pressure. Lifting his hips he pressed through the soft denim at the warmth and heat. "Feels good," he gasped.

"It's supposed to." A soft murmur as talented lips crushed his mouth again and then strung a pearl necklace of kisses along his jaw. He found Sam's dimple and blessed it with his tongue, causing the younger man to shiver and smile, deepening the dimple to a crease and bringing forth a groan deep from Dean's chest.

"God, Sam," he muttered, kissing feverishly down Sam's neck and into the hollow of his throat. "Tell me this feels good to you too. Talk to me."

"I can't," Sam gasped, throwing his head back against the pillow, arching his spine again, seeking that hardness in the place where he was now hard, hungry, needy. "Dean, help me," he muttered, shaking hands reaching for his waist, searching for the buttons to release himself from this prison. "I need to feel you," he moaned, beyond strangeness and familiarity, beyond right and wrong, falling deep into hunger and desire.

It had been so long since anything had felt this good, Sam thought as Dean tugged the buttons free and then pulled at the waistband, taking jeans and white jockeys together and stripping them down long legs that bucked impatiently and kicked them loose.

And now it was all hot flesh and they were both beyond words as strong masculine hands roamed, stroked, pressed into smooth young flesh, glorying in the sheer carnality of touch and sensation of taste. Sam gave himself over to it, never before having lain beneath another and been loved so selflessly. Always the one who kissed and so rarely kissed himself and perhaps never so thoroughly, Sam could only toss his head on the pillow and grip sweat slicked flesh that had picked up a rhythm now, as familiar as his heartbeat, sliding against the cradle of his thighs.

Long legs lifted and wrapped around Dean's narrow hips.

It had been so long since he'd been touched, and held and stroked. Since hands other than his own had slid down the flatness of his belly and just the act of someone else's hand, _Dean's_ hand touching him there was enough to send wild flutters through his overcharged senses.

And then Dean's hand found him, wrapped around him, wrapped around both of them and Sam didn't even have time to find that heartbeat rhythm again, he was coming, arching his back, gripping with his hands, gritting his teeth and throwing his head back as he erupted.

There was a flush of wet heat between them and then Dean was stiffening against him and Sam shivered again as he felt the pulse of moisture jerk against his belly and the sensation, the sheer reality and breathtaking intimacy of what was happening pulled another spasm from him, and then another.

Finally, wrung out and exhausted he felt Dean relax on top of him, his muscled form easily finding all the places they fit together and curving into them. He should have been heavy, it should have been uncomfortable, instead it was the comfort Sam didn't even know he'd been craving for such a long time. Dean's arms holding him, cradling him, Dean's body shielding him.

Sam drifted into the sweetest sleep he'd had in months.

End of Part Three

Part Four

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	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Memories of Me  
**Author:** Gillian Middleton  
**Characters/Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating: **R**  
Total word count: **25 600  
**Warning:** Wincest.  
**Authors notes: **_Amnesia story - which by its very nature could be construed as containing a character unable to give informed consent to sex. Not non-con, perhaps dubious-con? (Also I totally made up the town this is set in.)  
_**Summary:** _While investigating a routine curse in a small California town Dean loses his memory. With only his brother to lean on feelings begin to develop that aren't exactly brotherly. How's Sam going to cope with that?_

**Memories of Me**

Part 4 of 4

Morning light assaulted him and Sam winced and lifted his head groggily. His pillow seemed decidedly warm and smelled oddly male and it took a few moments focusing before he realized it was his brother's bicep. It was also covered with drool and Sam guiltily wiped his mouth and smoothed his palm over the downy freckled flesh. He darted a look at Dean's face but the older man was still sleeping peacefully.

Sam pushed himself up on his elbow, still blinking and wincing against the harsh morning light. Dean's arms were flung out on each side of him in an attitude of total abandon, and Sam had found his pillow on the right one, curled up next to his brother's body.

His brother.

Weird... how the world could turn on a dime like that, spin on its axis and suddenly become this unrecognizable place where Sam Winchester woke up naked with his brother.

Weird... how young Dean looked when sleeping, all the cocky confidence of the day smoothed out.

Weird... how a million years had passed and even in the cold morning light Sam couldn't find it within himself to regret his impulsive decision.

This was weird, Sam decided. But weird he could do. His whole life had been pretty weird so far.

Sam was a quick thinker and a hundred more thoughts flashed through his mind in the next minute or so. How different it had been to make love with a man. How he'd wondered now and then, as people do, what it might be like. How, in his imaginings, he'd been in charge. How he _so_ hadn't been in charge last night.

He wondered how Dean was going to be when he woke up. What was going to happen when - if - _when_ he got his memory back.

How Dean's lips - surely as familiar to him as his own - now seemed immensely fascinating and had they always been that perfect?

How he really needed the bathroom.

With a gusty sigh Sam flung his long legs over the side of the bed and sat up, stretching his shoulders, a yawn taking him off guard. That had been the best night's sleep he'd had in months and Dean would doubtless have some coarse remark about how he'd told him getting laid would solve all his problems.

Scratching idly at his belly Sam chuckled wickedly. Who'd known his brother would have the solution and be the solution all along?

"Hope you're not laughing at me," Dean said in his honey-rough morning voice from behind him.

Sam turned his head and surveyed his brother over his shoulder. Eyes still closed, Dean was stretching in the warm morning sunlight, the downy hairs on his arms and legs catching the golden glow. For a moment Sam was assaulted by the memory of those velvety limbs between his legs, thighs rasping on the soft flesh of his inner thighs. He shivered and hurriedly stood.

"I need to pee."

"Go for me while you're there," Dean called after him sleepily as Sam shot for the bathroom. "I don't want to move."

"Don't get too comfortable," Sam called out, striving for normality. "We've got a job to finish." He scratched his belly again and flakes of dried semen clung to his nails. It happened, but it had never been someone else's before and Sam stared at his hands in fascination before looking down at the remnants of the night's passion decorating his flat stomach.

He washed his hands in front of the mirror, tilting his head and looking at himself. There was dried blood smeared on his chin, Dean's blood, and he rinsed it off while he brushed his teeth. He knew he'd never be able to think of those first deep kisses without recalling this copper tang. Squinting at himself in the mirror, and at the slight beard burns on his cheek and throat, Sam wondered if that worked the other way and the taste of blood would always bring last night back to his mind as clearly as it was there right now.

He needed a shower but he could hear Dean stirring and the day was getting on. They had work to do.

"You done?" Dean appeared in the doorway, leaning easily on the jamb and smiling. He was scratching idly at his stomach and Sam suppressed a smile at the sight.

"What is the joke with you this morning?" Dean asked as he crossed to the toilet and relieved himself. "You've been grinning like a loon since I woke up."

"What did you expect?" Sam said lightly. "Tears before breakfast?"

"I don't know," Dean said thoughtfully, nudging Sam away from the mirror and washing his hands. "A few hours of in-depth discussion at the very least. Followed by tears and recriminations perhaps." He looked at himself, smoothed down his hair with a damp hand. "Do I need to shave?"

Sam gave him a WTF look. "How should I know?"

Dean gave him a meaningful look back. "You know," he winked, lifting his hand and languidly rasping it over his morning stubble. "Do I need to shave?"

The waggling eyebrows weren't exactly subtle and Sam shook his head in disbelief. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Jeez, Dean, no wonder your whole life is a series of one night stands if this is your idea of a romantic morning after."

"What an interesting thing to say," Dean mused, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms, totally unconcerned with his nudity and the fact that his pose was accentuating... his...

Sam fled the room, cheeks flushing as Dean chuckled coarsely behind him.

"Not romantic enough for you?" he called.

"Jerk," Sam accused as he untangled his shorts from his jeans and pulled them up his long legs.

"I'm just teasing ya," Dean said from the doorway around a mouthful of toothpaste. "Hey, what's your hurry? I thought we could have a shower together."

"I know what you thought," Sam said, pulling on his shirt. "But we have a lot to do today. Or have you forgotten that we're on the clock here?" He tapped his head. "Before your brain attacks you again."

Dean sighed and disappeared to rinse and spit. "Believe me, I haven't forgotten," he called fervently. "And no one wants to avoid that more than me." He emerged from the bathroom and caught the shorts Sam threw at him. They were the ones from the night before that had made it out of the duffel but no further than the side of the bed.

"Is this a subtle hint?"

"Get dressed. We have time to grab some breakfast before the occult store opens."

Dean pulled on the shorts and the khaki shirt, his hair ruffling wildly as he tugged it over his head. "What store? When did we find a store?"

"There's an occult shop called New Moon down on Third," Sam said, pulling on his trainers. "I came across it when I drove over every square inch of this town looking for you last night."

Dean grimaced. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Sam ordered, pocketing his keys and wallet. "Just don't do it again."

Dean smiled. "Promise."

Sam relaxed a little now his brother was dressing. As many times as he'd seen Dean casually naked it had a whole different meaning for him now. That was actually kind of a bad omen now that he thought about it. The wild impulsive intimacy of the night before had very much been about that moment, following his instincts to get through the night and into the next day.

And now it was the next day.

It could be hard sometimes, living in the moment. It could catch up with you.

"Hey."

Sam blinked and focused. Fully dressed, Dean stepped into his personal space and caught hold of Sam's lean hips, hands possessively firm. "Where were you?"

Sam caught his breath at the closeness, breathing in the intermingled scent of his brother and himself emanating from their bodies. He shook his head. "Just thinking."

"Regretting?" Dean asked softly. Soberly.

Sam flickered a frown. "No," he answered, straight from his gut. "No regret," he elaborated.

Dean leaned in and nuzzled his brother's neck. "Me either," he confirmed, the tip of his tongue tracing one rough little red patch. "Except about the stubble burn. Sorry, Sam."

"It's a new one for me," Sam laughed, breath hitching as that fire hot tongue tip traced a damp path from his neck to his throat, leaning into it as it tickled and teased. "Dude, we don't have time for this now."

Dean sighed and drew back, smiling winsomely. "We don't have an hour?" he coaxed. He pressed their hips a little more closely and now Sam wasn't the only one breathing just that bit more quickly. "Make that twenty minutes."

Sam couldn't help it, he had only got in one little kiss the night before and then Dean had jumped in the driving seat and had proceeded to kiss him pretty thoroughly. But now he felt the need to be the kisser, and those lips, _his brother's _lips, were driving him nuts. He bent that scant or inch or two and engulfed Dean's mouth with his own, taking charge right away, stroking with his tongue at that perfect bow before being accepted and taken into warm and welcoming heat.

No chaste kiss this time, Dean's hands swiftly slipped around his waist and burrowed beneath his layers of shirts, and before Sam knew it he had one hand cupping his brother's neck and the other his backside. They necked like teenagers until imminent asphyxiation forced them to draw back and draw breath.

"Holy crap," Dean breathed, eyes glazed.

Sam surveyed the well ravaged lips with satisfaction, proud that even in that explosion of passion he'd taken care not to put too much pressure on that jagged tear marring the lower one. Dean's hands had found the waistband of Sam's jeans and he was tugging him towards the bed and for a step or two Sam allowed himself to be led before memory jogged back into place.

"Dean, no," he protested. "The pendant, the curse. Your seizures," he managed desperately, fighting off the hand that was grabbing at his fly button.

Dean grimaced. "Aww, Sam."

"Come on," Sam returned, pulling out of Dean's grasp and stepping back a pace, trying to catch his breath. "You don't want another fit, do you? We have to get moving on this."

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Stupid brain."

-666-

New Moon was pretty typical of its kind, in its window dream catchers and silver pentagrams hung side by side with dried herbs and carved stone skulls. Dean elected to make a coffee run to the Starbucks across the street while Sam asked some of his innocent faced questions. By the time the taller man emerged from the store Dean was sitting up on the hood sipping his morning black and sighing in appreciation.

Sam accepted his own latte and popped the lid. "Dude, you're not gonna believe this."

"You found our cult?"

"They're not just a cult, man. They're gamers."

"Say what now?"

"Satanic gamers. Like role-playing games? Dungeons and Dragons?"

Dean looked skeptical. "What, like that whole ten-sided dice deal?"

"Yeah. They're not Satanists, they just pretend they are."

"How can you be sure they're our jewel thieves?"

"Oh, it's them. Apparently they're having some kind of get together tonight. Check it out." Sam handed over a lurid yellow flyer printed in bold black Halloween style fonts.

Dean perused it, shaking his head in disbelief. "A flyer? Satanists with flyers?" The page announced a **_Magickal Gathering_** that night, **_to distribute the items of power_**. "Dude they are kidding with this crap. And what's this? _**Gather at the Throne of Darkness**?_"

"Apparently it's their lair. The nice store lady with the razor blade earrings and spider web tattooed on her neck gave me that personal invite. You'll never guess where it is."

"Um, a spooky abandoned warehouse down in the meat packing district?"

"Good guess, Shaggy, but no cigar. Try Todd's beach house on Shoreline Drive."

Dean handed Sam the flyer back, shaking his head and chuckling. "California Satanists," he marveled. "What do you wanna bet they don't wear robes, they wear black board shorts?"

"Oh no," Sam disagreed with a smirk. "These are RPG Satanists. I predict black robes, silver pentagrams and dribbly candles aplenty."

Dean flipped on his shades. "Sounds like a gas. Let's book."

-666-

"Okay, I've counted six guys, a keg of beer and what looks like a catering pack of fried chicken." Dean dropped the binoculars and smirked at his brother. "Who caters a Satanic Ritual?"

"People who live in million dollar beach houses," Sam said, head bent over the trunk of the Impala. "Ah hah!" he said triumphantly, pulling out two steel canisters.

"Are they...?" Dean said in dawning delight, reaching for one.

"Smoke grenades," Sam said with a grin at his brother's childish glee. "We got them from Caleb when we stocked up on gear last month."

"I don't know who that is, but god bless him and all who sail in him," Dean said reverently. "I always wanted to hurl a few of these around."

"You've been dying for a chance to use them," Sam confirmed, leaning back against the back of the car and chuckling. "Dude, you look like a kid at Christmas."

Dean gave him a wicked grin. "You certainly know how to show a fella a good time," he said with a wink.

Sam felt his cheeks flush and hurriedly turned back to the trunk. "Okay, I figure we use buckshot inside, we don't want to kill anybody although I wouldn't mind peppering some yuppie butts with lead just on general principle."

"Bring it on," Dean enthused, stowing the grenade in his jacket pocket and accepting the sawn off. "Hey, I know this," he said happily as he popped the barrel, checked the sights and clicked it back into place.

Sam stowed his grenade and checked his own weapon. "We really should wait until tonight," he said uncertainly, squinting down the dunes to the sprawling beach house. "Until we know that the jewels are there."

"No way, Sam, we have do this now."

"Dean-"

"No, Sam, I'm serious. If my brain clock is on schedule then this afternoon I'll be dancing the fit fandango in that crappy hotel room. And then I won't be good for anything for hours."

Sam huffed a deep sigh. "I know," he said. But I won't take us in there blind." He frowned at a quick thought. "How about I scout around? See if I can get a look inside?"

"Uh uh," Dean said firmly. "Too dangerous. Just cos these guys look like a bunch of idiots doesn't make them any less crazy. Remember they robbed that museum."

"Only cos we didn't rob it first," Sam felt compelled to point out.

"And they hit that old man over the head."

"I guess."

"Look, Dean said thoughtfully. "Here's what I think. The place is buzzing with preparations for the social event of the Satanic season, right? All we have to do is get into the house, find someone who looks like he belongs there and kick the crap out of him until he tells us where the jewels are." Dean paused and looked innocent. "What?"

Sam just stared him down, head tilted to the side.

"All right," Dean sighed gustily. "We _threaten_ to kick the crap out of him. Wuss. Then we smash the ruby, toss a couple of smoke grenades around and book it out of there. Pausing only to call the cops and drop their sorry asses in it, we head back to the motel for hours of fit-free sex, followed by fried chicken for dinner. Okay?"

Sam was sniggering by the end, especially at the hopeful 'okay'. He shook his head.

"No fried chicken?" Dean said, crestfallen.

"No, the chicken's fine," Sam laughed. "And the rest of the plan sounds pretty good too, except, will we really need the grenades?"

"Du-ude," Dean appealed as if it were obvious. "Of course we do. Don't try and take my grenade away now, man."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Dean wrinkled his nose at him and Sam couldn't help but reach out and cup his shoulder.

"And the fit-free sex?" Dean said, smile fading. "What are our chances of that, do you think?"

Sam sobered. "If the seizures come back we go to the doctor. We fix it."

Dean nodded but his eyes still held a question.

"I don't know," Sam answered, his words almost a whisper. "I don't know what's gonna happen next."

"Me either," Dean admitted lowly. "I just - I can't imagine this feeling going away. I can't imagine wanting it to. I'm scared."

Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder, pulling his brother into an easy embrace. "It'll be okay," he murmured, wishing he was as sure.

"Remember what I said about hating that other Dean?" Dean said faintly into his neck.

"Don't look at it that way," Sam said, tugging his brother back and gazing down into his eyes. "Soon you'll be whole again, Dean. And we'll still be together, no matter what."

"Tell me again that you don't regret it," Dean said urgently.

"I don't regret it," Sam assured him.

Dean gazed back at him and for the longest time they just stood there, locked in each other's arms, staring at each other. Curiously Sam felt as if Dean was trying to memorize him, as if attempting to imprint this moment and these feelings in his mind, his memory.

"Whatever happens in the next hour," Dean murmured. "I want you to know. Last night you pulled me from the edge of a dark place, Sam. No matter what I might say or do when my memory comes back, remember this. I love you."

Sam swallowed hard. "I love you too," he said hoarsely.

And this time neither was the kisser or the kissed, they just met together somewhere in the middle.

-666-

"Let's do this thing."

-666-

A man in overalls was trimming the grass that ran down the side of the house and the noise covered any sound they might have made on the concrete path. It was broad daylight, the rain gone as if it had never been, the sky brilliant blue above them.

It felt bizarre, doing this in the daytime, without the familiar shadows of the night as camouflage. Sam wondered if Dean felt it too as he tried the back door. It opened under his hand but there were voices calling from inside and Dean gave him a worried glance as they edged inside.

They were in a large tiled kitchen, gleaming with silver and shiny bench tops. A voice, a female one, called from the room beyond and they ducked through a door into what turned out to be a walk-in pantry. Sam felt a bead of sweat run down his back. He didn't like this, it felt like it could all turn bad any second and he tried to signal to Dean to abort, but the voice was already fading and his brother was peering out.

"Come on," he hissed, and shotguns pointing up they crossed the kitchen to the hallway. Backs to the wall they followed the cool blue passage through the center of the house. Then, without warning a man in a toweling robe stepped out of a door ahead of them and opened his mouth to yell.

Dean was on him in a moment, hand over his mouth, gun pressed warningly against his breast bone.

"Make a noise and you'll be seeing stars for a week," he hissed and the man's eyes widened above Dean's hand. He was short and stocky, but young, maybe on nineteen or twenty, with fair hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose.

Sam leaned in close and threatening. "Where are the jewels?"

The man blinked and shook his head as best he could under Dean's hold.

"The Brackett Collection," Dean said, shoving the gun harder until the man winced. "Believe me, buddy, you don't want to dick with us right now. Take us to the jewels or else."

Sam shot him a look and Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. Not his best threat, but it did the trick, the teen was trembling from head to foot and he blinked rapidly again and nodded.

"Which way?" Dean barked and the man tremblingly pointed, stumbling as Dean spun him and pushed him ahead of them down the hall.

"Study," the man said under Dean's loosened hand and Dean nodded at Sam and stood back slightly with the hostage as Sam braced himself then shoved the door open and rushed in, shotgun raised.

The room was empty and Sam breathed a sigh of relief as he signaled Dean and they manhandled the hostage inside and shut the door, locking it after them.

"Where?" Dean said, pulling the teen close and staring into his frightened eyes. Then he deliberately loosened his hand.

"The desk drawer," the man panted, eyes dilated with fear. "Please, don't hurt us, it was just a game, you know."

Sam was at the desk, carefully grasping the worn brass fitting on the polished wood and pulling carefully. A black velvet wrapped bundle lay casually in the otherwise empty draw and he breathed a sigh of relief. Without hesitation his pulled the drawer out and dumped the contents onto the slate tiled floor.

Dean and the hostage watched wide eyed as the velvet cover loosened and gleaming old gold scattered onto the hard surface. And there, tangled in their midst was the Blood Ruby pendant, its color living up to it's name.

"Do it," Dean said tersely, meeting Sam's eyes for one long moment. And then Sam pulled out the small heavy mallet from his jacket and slammed it down on the stone.

Ruby was tough, but he didn't have to smash it to smithereens to break the Curse, with one blow the stone cracked clear across and there was a sound like a sigh and the papers on the desk fluttered, the curtains on the sliding glass doors ruffled and a wind seemed to sweep the room.

And then everything stilled.

-666-

"Did it work?" Sam said urgently. "Did it? Dean?"

Dean lifted his head and turned a gaze on Sam so searing that the younger man almost stepped back.

"Put it this way, Sam. When we get out of here I'm gonna kick your ass."

-666-

"D'you think he'll call the cops?" Sam asked tentatively as they made their way back to the car.

"After he stops peeing his pants?" Dean reached the car and popped the trunk, tossing the shot gun in the back. "No, I think he'll dump those tacky jewels in the ocean and go back to being some rich man's spoilt brat of a son."

"So, I guess the Curse is broken then."

"Yeah," Dean said, spinning around and smiling sarcastically. "Another job well done. Cookies and milk for everyone."

Sam took a deep breath. "Look, Dean," he said, trying to sound reasonable.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean's voice was like a whiplash and Sam flinched. He shouldn't be surprised at this, he'd known it was coming.

"Do we have to do this right now?" he pleaded, hoping a little time and distance would cool Dean's hot temper off a little.

"When would be a good time to do this, Sam?" Dean snarled. "You tell me. When would be a good time to discuss the freakin' mess you've made of our lives?"

"I was just doing what felt right at the time."

"What _felt_ right?' Dean said incredulously. "In what universe could that have felt right?"

Sam stood his ground bravely. "You know. You were there."

"Oh, no," Dean warned him. "You don't get to blame me for this, Sam. I wasn't in my right mind. I didn't know what the hell I was doing!"

Sam ducked his head in acknowledgement. "I know that."

"You made the decision for both of us, Sam, and that was just way out of line."

"I couldn't think about that."

Dean stepped closer, tilting his head and trying to catch his brother's eye. "You couldn't _think _about that?" he repeated scathingly. "Then what could you think about, Sam? What the hell was going through your head?"

"You needed me," Sam said thickly. "You needed me and I could give that to you." He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes at last. "I wanted to give that to you."

"But you're my brother, Sam," Dean said heavily. "How could you just forget that?"

"I didn't forget." Sam's voice was a whisper of sound. "I didn't forget for one second."

Dean stared at him as if he'd never seen him before. "Then what kind of sick sonuva bitch does that make you?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he said bleakly. "I just... I did whatever it took at the time to make it right. Isn't that what we do, man? Break the rules, walk all over the taboos? Whatever it takes to get the job done? I've stood by and watched you break the rules for months. I've let you take care of me for months. Well this time it was my turn to take care of you. And to break whatever rule it took to do that."

"Jeez, Sammy. Couldn't you have started with jaywalking or something?"

Sam, torn between hysterical laughter and tears, dropped his head in his hands.

Dean stepped forward and shoved him, hard, and Sam stumbled against the car. "There are some rules we just don't break, Sam! Some lines we just don't cross over!"

Sam spat a bitter laugh, hating this, hating this pain in his chest and the pain in Dean's eyes. "Rules? For the Winchester's? What rule can't we break? Name me one?"

"Incest," Dean threw back, eyes deadly.

Sam shook his head in instinctive denial. "No, you know what? Screw incest. And screw you, which is pretty much the same thing, I guess. It's just another rule, Dean, and we've been breaking them all our lives. Lines? We drive right over them."

"Not this one!" Dean bellowed. "This is too important, Sam, don't you get that? This is the rest of our lives!" Dean's voice softened and he stepped closer, as if trying to convey his sincerity. "The rest of our lives, Sammy. We have to live with this."

Tears pricked Sam's eyes at the childhood nickname. It occurred to him that Dean hadn't called him that once while he'd suffered from the amnesia. Why should he? He didn't even remember Sammy.

"I trusted you to take care of me and you..." Dean broke off as if the words were too much for him.

Sam felt his throat close up. "I did take care of you," he managed. "And yeah, I disregarded the fact that you weren't in your right mind to consent, because I wasn't sure right then and there whether you'd ever be back to yourself again. I didn't know if we were gonna find these damn jewels, I didn't know whether you were gonna leave me or fall over and die in the middle of a seizure."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "I just don't even know what to say to you," he said, eyes bewildered.

Sam looked at him pleadingly. "Don't you remember how it felt?"

"No," Dean said firmly, stepping away, shaking his head. "Don't do that."

Sam pushed away from the car. "To feel that way, Dean? Don't you remember how much you needed me?"

"Stop it!" Dean said, spinning around, grabbing Sam's shirt front and shoving him back against the side of the car. "Stop talking about it."

"You were the one that started it!" Sam said wretchedly. "You started it, Dean, and that's what you can't admit to yourself."

"It wasn't _me_!" Dean spat back, face wild. "Damn you, Sam, you know that!"

Sam's anger drained away. Dean's knuckles were digging into his chest and the back of the car was hard against his spine, but all he could feel was empty. "It was you," he corrected quietly. "Don't you get that, Dean? You remembered everything but me. And even then you loved me."

Dean stared him down for a moment before pushing him away in disgust. "Don't think I don't know what this is all about," he sneered. "Yeah, I remember. I remember how you looked when I told you I loved you."

Sam winced.

"And you're right, Sam, I may have forgotten who I was but I was still me. A dog and a sleaze, remember? Kinda slutty? Do you think I didn't know exactly what buttons to push to get you into the sack?"

Sam clenched his jaw. "Don't say that."

"Cos that's all you were to me, dude. Just a tall drink a water with great shoulders and a six pack to die for. Just another potential one night stand and I've had more of them than you've had home cooked meals. Literally."

"It wasn't like that," Sam denied, stomach churning.

"How the hell would you know?" Dean said sarcastically.

"You told me you loved me," Sam managed through his pain.

"Huh!" Dean tossed back his head and laughed. "Like I've never said that before."

And now Sam grabbed Dean, one handed, swinging him around and slamming him against the car so hard the breath left his lungs in a rush. His fists were clenched, his heart felt as if it were about to burst out of his chest. He'd been trying to hold onto his certainty all this time, trying to hold onto Dean's words to him, _god_, had that only been an hour ago? But now in the harsh light of day he could see it all for what it really was.

Dean was right. He'd been out of his mind. It had practically been rape for Christ's sake. And Sam had been so willing, hadn't he, so eager to climb beneath the sheets, to feel his brother's hands on him. Dean was right. What the hell did that make him?

Love? What a frickin' joke.

Dean's defiant face swam before his eyes and suddenly Sam couldn't do this any more. He felt as if something had died and he had the horrible sinking feeling it was his relationship with the one person on earth he loved more than life.

Worse than that, he was beginning to realize that he'd been the one to kill it.

Unlocking his fist Sam let his brother go, trying to find the words and realizing he just didn't have any. Dean was still staring at him but now the anger on his face had died and there was only a blank pain that Sam found he couldn't bear. Wanting only to escape the accusation that seemed to sear him Sam turned and ran for the dunes.

The wind felt like it was rushing in his ears and the sea air seemed to fill his throat. But he still knew that Dean didn't call after him.

-666-

Sam awoke cramped and cold and wondering where the hell he was. The sand at his back was chill and he lifted his head from his knees, finding himself gazing at the blaze of sunset on the water. The evening breeze was freshening and in the distance a dog barked, children called and the fragments of their laughter drifted towards this quiet little place among the dunes.

Memory filtered back and Sam groaned deep in his throat. What the hell was he supposed to do now? The hotel keys were still in his pocket, digging into his hip through the well washed fabric of his jeans. But would Dean be waiting for him back there? Sam knew he wouldn't blame his brother if he'd just grabbed his gear and booked. What did he have to hang around for? A brother he couldn't even trust to watch his back?

Stiff and tired and cold Sam picked his way through the dunes to the shoreline where he stood for long moments gazing out at the restless ocean. He remembered loving the beach as a kid. One year Dad had been laid up in Galveston and they'd stayed in this shack by the shore. He and Dean had run wild, dressed in nothing but ragged cut-offs all day. Even through the ache in his heart he could smile at the memory, him burning and peeling, Dean going golden brown and freckling all over. They'd collected driftwood and in the evening Dad had hobbled out and sat with them around the bonfire, roasting weenies from a can and chugging Dr Pepper.

Without conscious thought Sam began to walk. The shore would take him back to town, back to the motel. He didn't have anywhere else to go. Would Dean be there? Probably. Even now Sam couldn't imagine a scenario where Dean would drive off and leave him. Not unless he wanted him to.

And Sam knew that he didn't want him to, he didn't want that at all. No matter how bad he felt, how guilty, he didn't want to part with Dean this way. All bitterness and anger and years of not speaking. Once in a lifetime was enough.

_"No matter what I might say or do when my memory comes back, remember this. I love you."_

Grief shuddered through him and he drew a painful breath. It shouldn't hurt so much, that Dean's words had all been a lie. It had all seemed so real at the time. Even now, looking back, it was hard to believe that it had all been some kind of line to reel him in. When just the night before Dean had leaned over him, touched him so tenderly, tried to kiss him. There had been tears in his eyes, one had run down his cheek. His voice when he asked how he could love Sam so much, when he was the one person he could never have...

Sam stopped, head coming up as if he were a hound scenting something on the air. No, that hadn't been a lie. Those words, his tears, that broken little confession. Dean might not have remembered Sam but he was still Dean and Sam knew Dean. Knew him better than anyone else on earth.

Sam tilted his head, smothering a curse under his breath. Of course he knew Dean. And what he knew of Dean was that his brother would rather be torn apart by wild horses than admit to anything even remotely resembling feelings. For Dean to stand there, to say that, to shed a tear...

That was no lie.

_"No matter what I might say or do when my memory comes back..."_

And Dean must have had some inkling, some kind of sense about how it might be once he regained his memory. How he might try to deny those feelings.

_"...remember this. I love you."_

But Sam hadn't remembered, he'd done what he always did with Dean, allowed himself to be goaded the way he'd always allowed himself to be goaded - into another prank, another dare. _"Chicken."_

Oh, Dean knew what buttons to push all right, and he'd pushed them, but it hadn't been last night, when the truth and honesty of what they'd both been feeling was sharp as a knife blade between them. It had been this afternoon, when the truth was too sharp and bitter for Dean and he'd done what he'd always done, pushed it away, deflected it, until Sam had been drowning in his own guilt and shame and had forgotten that all this had started with Dean, with what he wanted and needed.

The lights of town were up ahead and Sam realized he was half jogging and half walking as he left the beach and cut across the path that led to the main drag. By the time he reached the main road he was running, shoes striking the pavement, people around him staring. All he cared about was reaching the motel before Dean left, talking to him, grabbing him if necessary and holding him down until he listened.

Sam reached the motel sign and caught hold of it, bending over at the waist and breathing hard as equal measures of joy and fear coursed through him. The black Impala was parked directly in front of their room.

Dean was still here.

After the miles he'd traveled to get here these last steps were the hardest of his life. When he fitted his key in the lock he didn't even know what he was going to say. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

-666-

The motel was just as they'd left it, Dean's clothes lay scattered all around, the sheets were crumpled, the covers tossed. Dean was sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, his eyes wide and unguarded.

Sam stopped dead, arrested by what he saw in those wide expressive eyes. The love in his brother's eyes, the fear, the sheer relief. He shut his own eyes for a moment, feeling his panic drain away into a quiet certainty. They would get through this, he and his brother. When he opened his eyes again Dean's face had shuttered, his eyes had grown cool, his mouth become a straight line, but Sam knew what he had seen, there was no mistake.

It told him what he needed to know.

It would get them through this.

"I thought you'd be gone," Sam said, almost collapsing against the door frame as relief coursed through him.

"I wondered if you were coming back," Dean said quietly.

Sam carefully closed the door behind him and crossed the room, dropping onto the edge of the bed opposite his brother.

"Dean," Sam murmured, breaking the silence.

"I didn't mean what I said," Dean interrupted him flatly. "About you just being a one night stand."

"I know," Sam acknowledged softly.

Dean shook his head blankly. "I don't know what to do, Sam. I don't know if we can get past this."

"We've gotten past worse," Sam reminded him and Dean shot him an incredulous look, his damp eyes wide.

"Worse than this? Name me one thing we've gotten past that was worse than this?"

"Me leaving you," Sam said simply.

Dean frowned and shook his head. "I told you I understood why you left. That I came to understand it anyway."

"I know. And it was the right thing for me to do at the time," Sam agreed steadily. "But understanding doesn't make it any easier to forgive, does it? It doesn't take the pain away."

Dean met his gaze. "Maybe not," he eventually whispered.

"We came back from that, Dean. We can come back from this."

"But this isn't a matter of forgiving, Sam." Dean smiled bleakly. "There doesn't seem to be much I wouldn't forgive you for."

Sam considered this. "Yeah," he finally nodded. It was an acknowledgement of Dean's sentiment, and an agreement as well. That it cut both ways. He caught Dean's glance for a moment and knew his brother got that.

"It's understanding I'm having trouble with," Dean said carefully. "And not just your part in it." He took a deep breath. "Because you were right, Sam. You were right. I was as mad at myself as at you. I started all that stuff. You would never have thought about it if it weren't for me."

"You were right too, Dean," Sam admitted, shame stinging his cheekbones. "You trusted me and I betrayed that trust."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, you did kinda. But I understand why, Sammy. Like you said, I was there. And I know that it wasn't just..." he shrugged and rolled his eyes. "You know."

_Sex_, Sam took that to mean. "Yeah."

"I know that there really was..." And he gave his best god-save-me-from-this-conversation squirm. "You know."

_Love_, Sam took that to mean. "Yeah," he agreed, catching Dean's eye and trying to convey how very much... _you know_, there had been.

Dean flushed a little and ducked his head. "Jeez," he muttered. "How the hell did we get here anyway? Where the hell did that come from, Sammy? Because I swear to god I never felt that way about you before. Except I must have, right? Because it was right there under the surface waiting to burst out the minute my back was turned."

"Imagine how I feel," Sam said fervently, sheer relief at the turn the conversation had taken making him light headed. "I was being all noble and careful of your sensitive feelings and telling myself I was finally going to give something back to you, and all I ended up doing was taking from you. Again." He grimaced. "I'm sorry about that, Dean."

"It's okay," Dean shrugged. "You..." he broke off, looked a little uncomfortable, a sting of red across his nose. "You know it can't happen again though, right? I mean, I'm not saying you want it to, I'm just saying, well... you know. Right?"

Sam felt a catch in his chest and he nodded, clenching his jaw against the sudden swift pain. Of course he knew that, of course he did. An hour ago he'd thought he was going to lose his brother for good, nothing was worth risking that relationship over.

But still, he couldn't help remembering the easy sweetness of that morning. The way Dean had reached for him. How it had felt to be able to just lean down and capture his brother's lips with his own...

Yesterday he'd been longing for his Dean back, and now he was here, complete, whole once again. Now today here Sam was longing for that other Dean, who'd told him he loved him and then given him a glimpse of a whole new world.

Irony sucked.

"Sam?" Dean said, the beginnings of panic on his face. Sam gave him a lopsided smile of reassurance.

"I know," he said firmly. "I do know that, Dean."

Dean looked dubious. "You sure? Cos you looked a little spacy just then."

"I'm just glad I didn't ruin things completely," Sam said, revealing a little of the truth. He wouldn't lie to Dean, but he was going to fall back into one old habit and not share everything with him. It was pretty obvious that his brother couldn't take much more tonight. However there was one thing he wanted to say. Had to say.

Dean looked relieved. "Yeah, well, like I said. You weren't alone."

"I'm sorry that I betrayed your trust. I can't even plead ignorance on that one, I did it and I knew I was doing it. But..." Sam paused for a second. Should he just leave it at that? Dean was already a lot calmer, maybe he should just let this go. But something was driving him on, something he and Dean had both said earlier. He needed to say this, so he took a deep breath and went with it.

"But I can't regret... I just can't bring myself to regret last night, Dean." Sam hung his head guiltily. "I'm sorry."

When Dean didn't answer Sam looked up and caught the question in his eyes that his brother wouldn't ever put into words. Deft at interpreting the emotional shorthand that was his brother's method of communication, Sam answered the unasked question.

"Because I guess... I just missed being that close to someone," he said, groping for words to express his vague feelings. "I missed you those years when we were apart. And losing Jess was like having half of myself cut away. But for just a while there last night..." Sam broke off in frustration. "I don't know. I'm not explaining this very well."

He looked up nervously, unsure what Dean would be thinking of all this. His brother was frowning, head tilted a little to the side. But there was something in his eyes that Sam felt mirrored his own feelings. Dean truly did want to understand what his brother was saying to him. He needed to. Emboldened by the silent encouragement Sam found the words he needed. He looked into his brother's eyes.

"For a while last night it was like we were as close as two people can be, you know? I've had two real lovers in my life now, Dean, Jessica and you. And I've loved you both. And you both loved me. How many people, I wonder, get to feel that? Being that intimate with someone you love more than your life? I guess I just feel lucky. And I can't regret that."

There was silence for a long time and then Dean took a deep breath. "You can be a real girl sometimes, you know?" he said hoarsely. But he didn't look away and his eyes... spoke volumes.

They spoke of love and forgiveness and understanding. And in that silent communication that had carried them through the hardest times in their lives the brothers looked, and forgave. Then they smiled and finally they grinned.

"Right," Dean said briskly, standing up and reaching for his empty duffel bag. "Let's draw a line under this. I suggest we pack up and leave this crappy little motel and this crappy little town far behind us."

"No arguments from me," Sam said, climbing to his feet with a slight groan. He was still feeling the effects of hours asleep hunched over in the dunes.

Dean slanted him a half concerned, half impatient look. It was one he'd inherited from their father. "You all right to travel?" he asked, which in Dean-speak meant, 'I want to travel, get over it, whatever it is.'

"I'm fine. Are you sure you should be driving? We never were sure those seizures-"

"It was the Curse," Dean interrupted. "In fact, Sammy, from now on we can attribute everything that happened here to that Curse, okay?"

Sam looked doubtful but obediently began to pack up his stuff. "Everything?"

"Everything," Dean said firmly.

"And you're really sure we can put it behind us?" Sam asked dubiously.

"We can if you stop talking about it all the time," Dean said waspishly.

"O-kay," Sam said, taking the hint. He paused for just a second and couldn't help smiling while Dean zipped around the room stuffing his clothes in his bag, groping under the bedside table for stray socks. Even though everything was far from normal. Even though it would take a long time for normal to come back. And even though they still had a lot of talking to do, although Sam wasn't holding his breath about that. It was gonna be like pulling teeth.

He smiled because they weren't teetering on that knife edge any more. They'd scaled the first hill..

Dean leaned over and the back of his shirt rose up, exposing a tanned swath of skin bearing four very clear fingerprint bruises. Sam flushed red hot and turned away, bending over his bag and contriving to look busy.

Maybe there were still a few more hills to climb.

-Epilogue-

Dawn the next day, four hundred miles away. "Now I could sleep," Dean said, popping the top off a paper mug of coffee and flicking it onto the dashboard.

"Mm," Sam agreed sleepily, even though he'd dozed most of the night away. He cupped the welcome brew and sipped appreciatively.

"So, we find a motel and crash?"

"Laundromat first, dude," Sam said, suppressing a yawn. "I can't spend one more day sniff testing everything I wear. It's gross."

"Can't we sleep first?"

"Come on, Dean. I'm not putting this stuff back on. We either wash now or I wash later wearing only a towel."

If he blinked he might have missed it - the slight widening of Dean's eyes, they way they darted across to him, flicked across his shoulders and down his chest. That little hitch in the breathing. He might have only caught the rosy blush that colored Dean's cheeks under the two day growth of beard.

Something sang in Sam, a door he'd thought closed opened just a crack and he saw a glimmer of something he was sure had been put behind them.

"Don't do that," Dean growled and Sam flicked him an innocent look.

"What?"

"Don't look at me like that. Like you're remembering,"

"I can't help what I remember, Dean," Sam protested, but inside he was still singing, a small and quiet song.

"You better learn," Dean ordered.

"Anyway, I wasn't remembering."

"No?"

"I was thinking."

Dean shot him a suspicious glance, as well he might. "Thinking what?"

Sam tilted his head in consideration. "Just that you're cute when you blush."

Dean's face was outraged. "Sam!"

Sam shrugged innocently and turned back to look out his window. "I'm just sayin', is all."

The End.

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